


Dead Man's Switch

by Anonymous



Category: The Pretender
Genre: Adventure, Drama, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-03
Updated: 2016-09-05
Packaged: 2017-12-28 08:00:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 13
Words: 112,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/989668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An overheard threat to the Centre, an secret long-hidden within the Centre itself, and a pair of new projects that the Centre has kept carefully hidden from everyone makes for a minefield that not everyone is going to survive.  Can Jarod, Miss Parker and her team band together to rescue innocent victims from the evil of not one, but TWO corporations that have no scruples?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Many years ago, when I was still known in The Pretender fandom as MMB, I began this story. Finally I'm finding inspiration and incentive to finish it. My apologies to all my readers who saw this story begin and then abruptly die unfinished nearly eight years ago. Now you'll all get to know how the story ends.
> 
> Enjoy the ride.

Sam rocked back on his heels and cast his eyes yet once more from his assigned post near the south exit over the crowd of people that had packed the Dover Convention Center ballroom floor. He’d been in that one spot for over two hours now, his feet ached, and he seriously doubted that anybody in their right mind would be even considering crashing the event he and fifty other sweepers watched over so carefully. But, orders were orders; and when orders like these came down from the Tower itself, the cream of the sweeper corps could do nothing but comply.

At the south end of the room, he knew that Willy and his so-called ‘elite’ group were clustered around Mr. Raines and Lyle. It was, after all, a celebration of their eighth year at the head of the Centre without old Mr. Parker in the way, eight years of a reign of terror that had nearly every reasonable Centre employee wondering whether it was safer to go to work every morning or to step in front of a speeding semi. Secrecy overall had been compounding almost daily, security clearances had been diminishing apace, the nature of the research done in Blue Cove turning ever more bizarre and morale was plummeting.

Sam knew this only because he continued to remain close to the top of the authoritative food chain with his permanent assignment as Miss Parker’s personal sweeper; although as time was passing lately, he was noticing that Lyle was beginning to NOT pass along information that Miss Parker needed as the nominal head of Surveillance, Information and Security, otherwise known as SIS. Then again, much of that information was meant for Lyle to use against his twin sister, and the source of that information was most likely the Chairman himself, so being out of the loop was an executive decision. Since the spectacular failure of the effort to recapture Jarod was now standing at eight years and counting, Raines had obviously begun to play favorites, and Miss Parker seemed perfectly happy to NOT be the current beneficiary of his largess. She had survived the first ‘contest’ and was perfectly capable of holding her own, even with Raines feeding Lyle inside information.

The tall, dark-haired sweeper sniffed and let his eyes pick out his permanent assignment from amidst the crowd of government officials, Triumvirate representatives, military-industrial representatives and top Centre brass. She was, as usual, dressed to kill: stunning in a strapless, sapphire-blue sequined gown that made her sparkle like a slender, illuminated gem amidst the sea of black and white of the tuxedoes that surrounded her. She sipped delicately from her champagne flute and, to all appearances, seemed to be enjoying herself, but Sam knew better. He’d been around her long enough to see the frayed edge to that plastic smile she had pasted on her face, to see the coldness in her gaze that was fatigue and frustration.

His eyes darted about in her immediate vicinity and quickly found those he’d been looking for. Sydney was looking more dapper than usual in his tux, hovering close but not too close to his sapphire-clad colleague and watching over her as usual while seeming to participate fully in a conversation with someone Sam had never met. That vigilance actually made Sam feel better, because he knew deep down that the old psychiatrist would be quick to intervene if anything to do with Miss Parker started getting too intense. Then again, Sydney had been watching her more carefully of late anyway, long before this ridiculous soirée was even in the planning stages, so having him still on watch despite the formalities and crowd wasn’t necessarily a good sign.

Broots, however, was finally located over by the buffet table, conversing with a great deal of animation with another of his Computer Technologies colleagues. Sam sniffed; they were probably talking that geeky lingo that computer users seemed to slip into at a moment’s notice that nobody else on the face of the earth understood. All that alphabet soup – ISP, DNS, DSL – made for a language that was mostly gibberish. And yet… Yes, there it was! Broots’ eyes cast out over the crowd and first touched Sydney and then Miss Parker. The geek was being as watchful as the psychiatrist.

Sam’s eyes re-found his boss again. How did she do it, he wondered, keep all those corporate weasels at bay and still have a come-on smile on her face? No doubt her words were that delightfully subtle caustic that she used whenever dealing with Mr. Raines or his latest agenda, words that could keep a man nicely at bay without being totally repulsed. She hated shindigs like these, and he happened to know for a fact that she had actually had the guts to protest the order that had dragged her to this one to Mr. Raines himself. And yet she could put on a show like nobody’s business when pressed into involuntary service despite her reasoned arguments. Sam’s gaze caressed his boss with pride from across the room, where she’d never think to notice it. His position had its perks, one of which was being privileged to watch her survive and actually come out ahead in this tank filled with corporate sharks.

Then the sweeper’s blue eyes darkened dangerously as he watched Willy, the new head sweeper as of last week, head in his direction. He’d never had much time for the dark-skinned bully that never seemed too far separated from Mr. Raines’ side; having him for a direct superior of late had been downright infuriating. Willy played favorites with the corps members, and he seemed to now be prizing the Centre’s version of political correctness over skill and training. Sam had made his resentment and disagreement with the policy anything but a secret, commenting on it often enough that word was sure to get back to Willy, and he knew that one day he’d hear about his border-line insubordination. But this was in public…

“Take a fifteen-minute break,” Willy announced quietly when he’d drawn near enough. “This is going to go on for another three hours or more at least, so you take your break and be back promptly.”

“Right.” Sam had adopted the practice of giving Willy monosyllabic and monotone answers to his orders mostly out of self defense. If he ever told the man to his face what he REALLY thought of him, there’d be blood flowing somewhere by the end of the evening. Besides, his feet really were starting to ache, what with standing in the same place for all that time; he could use some sit-down time. 

Willy twitched a finger, and one of those politically vetted ‘elite’ sweepers who couldn’t shoot or think their way out of a paper bag moved into Sam’s position and adopted the typical stance of a sweeper on duty: feet apart, hands hanging at sides, eyes constantly brushing over the crowd. Sam nodded at his relief and headed out the south exit he’d been watching and down the brightly lit and festooned corridor towards the restrooms he knew were not far away. He’d been careful to limit the amount of fluids he’d had before taking up his post at the celebration, but even that little bit had long since had its chance to work its way through his system.

Feeling lighter and far more comfortable everywhere except his feet, Sam spotted a small alcove not far away that had a table, chair, lamp and pay phone, and headed for it. There was no way in Hell that he was going to spend his fifteen – now twelve – minutes of freedom pushing through a crowd of people he not only didn’t know but didn’t really want to be with. Sighing, he settled into the chair, turned the lamp off so that his position wouldn’t be readily noticeable, and relaxed, closed his eyes and let himself drift just a bit. His time sense was on alert status so that he’d head back to the ballroom in exactly eight minutes, but he’d have his break and his rest before then.

From time to time, a set of voices would approach and then dissipate as couples and clumps of guests would make their way to the restrooms or toward the main entrance to the convention center itself. Their presence kept him awake after all; and as his uncanny time sense told him his eight-minutes was almost up, he straightened in the chair and made to rise.

“Are you sure?” came the sound of one rather excited voice from nearby and drawing closer.

“C’mon, tell me you don’t think the Centre is ripe for the slaughter after this,” was the reply. Sam sank back into his pool of darkness to listen. Something was going on here that he needed to hear…

“What do the others think?” There was a short pause. “You _have_ talked to them, haven’t you?”

The second person gave a short, sharp laugh. “They’re frankly astonished that nobody’s ever seen anything like it before from the Centre. It makes for a window of opportunity that simply can’t be ignored. What’s more, if we managed to carry this thing off, I’m sure we’ll end up with most of the business the Centre’s been stealing in our back pockets once again, as well as most of the clients that have always done business with Blue Cove.”

“I’m still not sure this is gonna work,” the first voice hesitated. “They’ve got a pretty canny lady at the head of Centre Security. If she twigs to any of this, if we make any moves that make her suspicious, we’re dead in the water. Game over.”

“That’s why we’ll just have to make sure that she stays in the dark until it’s too late,” the second voice insisted darkly. “If she starts to suspect, we’ll know because of _where_ she starts to look and _how_ she begins to modify the security there. At that point, she will have become more of a liability than we need, and we’ll just take her out of the picture.”

“And _that_ won’t call attention to what we’re doing?” the first voice was astonished.

“Not if it’s done right,” the second voice shushed at its comrade. “Accidents happen all the time, you know…”

“What about that monster Raines keeps with him – Lyle?”

“You’re the one who told me that the Yakuza want his ass in the worst kind of way, now that Sonny Tanaka is dead in prison. Hell, I’ve been thinking that they’d be the first clients in our pockets if we could give Lyle to them still kickin’.” There was a short pause. “No, the one we really have to watch out for is the Parker bitch.”

“Why don’t we just get rid of her right up front, then?”

“Because the longer we can keep her in the dark, the closer we can get to running Raines and the Centre entirely into the ground before we jerk the rug out from underneath him. Once we have to remove Parker, our hand will be halfway revealed. The risks more than double then.”

“I still don’t like it.” The first voice sounded very skeptical.

“You’ll do as you’re told,” the second voice had a touch of steel will behind it. “Our techs have found a back door into the Centre mainframe, so it’s only a matter of time now. You keep your mouth shut, your eyes open, and stay on the job! You’re the best one among us to know if they’re starting to smell anything fishy. You’ve been there long enough and have enough seniority…”

“I hate being the insider. I’m ready to come home.”

“You just hang tight,” the first voice urged tersely. “If all goes as planned, you’ll be stuck in the Centre for only a little while longer. But we need to get back before they miss you or come and find us together. No need to cause undue comment before it’s necessary…”

Sam rose slowly out of his pool of darkness and stared thoughtfully at the gaping south entrance to the ballroom. He hadn’t been able to see many of the features of the men who had just conferred without knowing he was listening, and they had faded quickly into the sea of tuxedos. He shook himself and walked briskly and with determination to the entrance and touched his replacement on the shoulder to indicate that he was back and ready to resume his duty.

“You’re late,” the sullen blonde sweeper grumbled as he shifted and let Sam take the optimal position that gave him the best view.

“I’m here, aren’t I?” Sam grumbled back. 

“Asshole,” the sweeper tossed over his shoulder as he headed off through the crowd to rejoin his colleagues near Raines. 

Sam’s eyes sought out the glistening sapphire that was his boss, only now his gaze was troubled. Something was brewing, something that was designed to threaten, if not destroy, the Centre eventually; and the only way for him to protect his boss from near-certain death was to make sure she heard nothing about it. That didn’t make sense, he told himself with a quick shake of the head. The more aware of what was going on around her Miss Parker could be, the better she could defend herself…

Against an accident? Against an attack made to look like an accident?

What was he supposed to do? If he uttered a word of what he’d overheard to Miss Parker, there wasn’t a doubt in his mind that she’d do exactly as the conspirators had anticipated: she’d begin poking around in things she normally left alone _and_ she’d begin making adjustments to the Centre security systems. Yet if he kept his mouth shut, and she innocently began to poke around anyway – even if out of sheer boredom – he’d be running the risk of her ending up the victim of an arranged accident.

Who could he tell, then? Certainly not Raines! If it weren’t for the fact that the old ghoul’s moniker sat on his paycheck every week, he wouldn’t care if those men _did_ rip the Centre out from underneath him. He could always get another job, and no doubt so could Broots and Miss Parker while Sydney could just retire. Tell Lyle? Not a chance in hell. Telling Sydney or Broots was out of the question as well, because in telling them he might as well tell Miss Parker too. Their concern for her welfare would give everything away without the need to utter a word, and then she’d be in danger.

No, it looked as if he was going to have to deal with this conundrum on his own. He had to protect Miss Parker, even from herself, if need be. He’d probably end up regretting it, but he really didn’t have any choice.


	2. Just A Hint Of Trouble

Miss Parker sniffed as she saw her three colleagues – the other parts of her team to recapture Jarod – alighting from the elevator and homing in on her position just outside the etched glass doors that were the Chairman’s office at the very top of the Tower.  Broots looked his typical nervous and geeky self in his newest incarnation of a “The Centre Recycles” tee shirt and jeans.  Dressed a little more conservatively in turtleneck and sports jacket, as befitting a psychiatrist, Sydney’s entire being was imbued with curiosity and alertness.  Sam, on the other hand, was the quintessential sweeper, with only the expression in his eye betraying his wariness on all of their behalves. 

 

“I though this was going to be a private ass-reaming,” Miss Parker commented caustically, her eyes touching first Sydney, then Broots and finally Sam with equal frustration.  “I didn’t realize I was going to have an audience at my humiliation.”

 

Sydney opened his mouth to reply, but an angry call from the direction of the elevator cut him short.  “What the Hell is going on?” demanded Lyle, who stormed up to and into his twin sister’s face with an unabashedly threatening attitude.  “Why am I being called into HIS office, and what did you have to do with it?”

 

“Mr. Lyle, sir?” came a quiet request from behind Lyle. 

 

Miss Parker tried not to snicker when she saw that the three people who made up the rest of Mr. Lyle’s retrieval team had apparently also been summoned, just as her team apparently had.  Lyle had a second-string team, that was for sure!  Corky had been selected as his computer tech, a veritable geek visually with only moderately good programming and hacking skills.  Broots could work rings around the man without even breaking a sweat, and _this_ was the man they expected to best Jarod’s genius?  Then there was the dour Dr. Fischer to play psychoanalyst to anything the team managed to dig up.  A quick word with Sydney a few months ago revealed that Dr. Fischer hadn’t even _met_ Jarod, and so was working off of those of Sydney’s notes that had actually been turned in to the Centre.  Only the sweeper, Dick, had any real potential; but that came only because Dick had been a friend of and had been personally trained by Willy, Mr. Raines’ pet guard-dog sweeper.  All in all, though, Miss Parker had to admit that seeing _them_ just as confused and concerned as she and the rest of her team were feeling made her almost feel better.

 

“Looks like we’re all gonna get whatever ass-reaming Miss P was expecting,” the technician leaned and whispered to Sydney, who merely nodded blandly and kept his eyes glued to her face, as the leader of his team.  One of these days, she suspected, the psychiatrist would write a paper on the levels to which competition between the two teams, especially considering the other team was headed by her twin, could rise when that competition ended up carried over into adult life and was egged on by a manipulative superior.  No doubt she and Lyle had already supplied him with a good deal of research material in the last nine years, and she was equally certain that all of his notes were safely stowed at his house to prevent discovery. 

 

From the intent expression on his face, she could tell that situations like this one, while rare, were deeply appreciated by the old psychiatrist.  He probably found it fascinating to watch Lyle and her do their dominance dance; he could take his observations back to his office to analyze the steps later on in the evening.  He had clearly focussed his entire attention on the two of them, determined not to miss a single word or nuance.  The entire idea was audacious enough to be amusing, especially as she suspected the verdict on Lyle would be less than complimentary.

 

Her amusement ended as Lyle wrapped a painfully tight hand around her upper arm.  " _TELL_ me what you're up to!" he snapped.

 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about – I didn’t have a damned thing to do with this, you moron,” Miss Parker hissed lethally in response to his stance.  She jerked her arm free and moved even more into his face.  “Even if I did, do you honestly think I’d tell _you_?”

 

“And I’m supposed to believe you?” Lyle asked, his voice cold.

 

“I honestly don’t give a shit what you believe,” Miss Parker shrugged, knowing that the gesture would only serve to make her twin angrier, and then stepped back.  “Besides, how do I know that it wasn’t _you_ who managed to get us all in trouble, and that you’re just playing innocent to try to throw me off-track?”

 

“ _Me_?!”

 

“Where have you been for the last week, o brother of mine?” Miss Parker inquired with a sweetness in her voice that was almost poisonous.  “Oh yes – I remember now!  You were in Portland – got back just last night, if I remember properly.  And isn’t that where that Chinese dancer went missing…”

 

Now it was Lyle’s turn to go toe to toe with his sister.  “You know damned well what I was doing in Portland – and that I had nothing whatsoever to do with…”

 

“I know no such thing!  I know what you were _supposed_ to be doing, but outside that…”

 

A voice from right in front of the etched glass doors cleared itself overly loudly, and both Parkers turned to see Willy’s towering and dark face looking at them with a small smirk of amusement behind his eyes.  “Mr. Raines will see you now,” he stated and then turned to nod to the sweepers behind him, who immediately pulled on the matching doors so as to accommodate the six who had been summoned. 

 

Miss Parker turned to once more glance at her despised twin and then strode forward purposefully to push past him, trailing the rest of the assemblage behind her like a Queen on progress.  As expected of him, Sam pushed past everyone else so that the burly sweeper could be directly behind Miss Parker as she entered Raines’ office, and then he smirked ever so slightly as he faced off against the other security men. 

 

Only Willy, in all of the Centre hierarchy, demonstrated an equal level of dedication to his permanent assignment, and yet Sam managed to do it without any obvious signs of fawning or arrogance.  He simply was _there_ all the time, on watch all the time, keeping her safe all of the time he was allowed to be present.  Even Lyle didn't have a sweeper with that level of commitment, and it was yet another way in which Miss Parker knew her team to be superior to her brother's.

 

It didn’t take long for the two retrieval teams to line up in front of the massive carved desk that was the hallmark of the Centre Chairmanship, with Miss Parker’s team gravitating toward the right and Lyle’s team to the left.  Both groups clustered together, leaving almost an aisle between them that was as much indicative of the gulf of attitudes as well as the element of competition.  Neither side bothered to look at the other anymore; all eyes were on the gaunt figure behind the mammoth desk.

 

William Raines had shrunk in on himself even more over the five years of his reign at the top of the Centre food-chain, if such a thing were even possible.  His skeletal frame was garbed in a very expensive suit that, nevertheless, looked two sizes too big.  Sunken blue eyes that glittered with both intelligence and insanity from regarded the group assembled before him with distaste.  As usual, when called up on the carpet, Miss Parker's skin crawled to think that she could possible be related to the ghoul. 

 

“I’m sure,” Raines began, and then gasped noisily to pull another full breath of pure oxygen through the cannula in his nose, “that you’re all wondering why I called you here.”

 

“Whatever gave you that idea?” Miss Parker quipped bitterly, one hand on her hip.  Sam merely shifted subtly, his stance becoming just slightly more protective than before.

 

Mr. Raines gifted her with a withering glare and wheezed in a breath.  “Allow me to enlighten you then.  It has come to our attention,” he continued, and then gasped again, “that there have been an overabundance of unnecessary expenditures from both teams here: trips in Centre jets, hotel bills, restaurant and bar tabs…”  He gasped again.  “Are you catching my drift now?”

 

“Certainly you don’t expect us to fund the hunt for Jarod out of our own pockets?” Lyle gaped. 

 

“No,” Raines answered slowly, and then gasped again, “but neither do I want to be paying for employee vacations with company monies.”  He picked up two folders, both seemingly adequately filled with documents, and held them out to both Lyle and Miss Parker.  “I expect explanations to be filed and on my desk by tomorrow for the items listed here.”

 

“What about them?” Miss Parker jerked a thumb toward the support team members on her side of the aisle.  “Why call them in if you just wanted to talk finances with…”

 

“I wanted you all to hear this.”  Mr. Raines slowly and carefully arose from his comfortable leather chair to lean both hands on the desk toward the group in front of him.  “The Centre is no longer in the business of reimbursing first class accommodations for full retrieval teams or dinners for five or six at four-star restaurants.  Reasonable expenses will be handled, outlandish ones will be handed right back to the employee who incurred them.  We are not an endless supply of money for lifestyles out of your reach otherwise.”  Miss Parker had to admit she was impressed – all that time Raines spent in the Renewal Wing and respiration therapy looked as if it were paying off at long last.  The gasp at the end of that tirade was long and labored, however, putting things in her world back where they belonged. 

 

“I am assigning an auditor to oversee the finances of both retrieval teams," he continued,  "someone who will be receiving your receipts and claims and ruling on them on the spot.”  There was another noisy breath.  “You should be aware that continued abuse of Centre funding will result in consequences that will be… unfortunate…  Do I make myself clear?”

 

“Is that it?” Miss Parker sneered back.  “Nothing about how we’re chasing ghosts now, nothing about the fact that none of us have had even the hint of a clue as to Jarod’s whereabouts for well over five years now, nothing about how maybe the time has come to rethink how to better allocate the resources and personnel?  Just a damned lecture about our spending habits??”

 

“Miss Parker.”  Raines was obviously exercising patience, something that would be chilling under other circumstances.  “I would think the number of times you and your brother have been called to report on your failures should indicate that our concern has not lagged in that respect.”

 

“And just how do you expect us to run a ghost to ground without spending money to do it?” she persisted stubbornly.  “We have to court information and pay for it, because intimidation isn’t doing the trick anymore…”

 

“Not in first class hotel rooms, and not at four-star restaurants,” Raines intoned as he once more seated himself.  “Not unless you’re willing to pay for them yourself.  Am I making myself clear?”

 

“C’mon, boys.”  Miss Parker spun on her stiletto heels and pushed past Sam in heading toward the door.  “This is just a tempest in a teapot…”  From the corner of her eye, she saw that even Lyle gave a quick jerk of the head to his team and began to turn away at the same time.

 

“I’m not finished…”  Raines’ voice sounded hollow and ominous, causing both Parkers to hesitate and turn about again.  “The fact of the matter is that the Centre has been bleeding money into this attempt to retrieve Jarod for far too long, and I’ve decided that the time has come to put an end to it.  Assigning an auditor to the retrieval effort is but the first step.”  He gasped and glared at each of the Parker twins in turn.  “Listen, and listen well.  You two have one more year in which to try to win a ticket to success here at the Centre before you _and_ your teams are transferred to Africa and put through a thorough re-education process.”  His intake of breath was positively bloodcurdling.  “At that time, the hunt to retrieve Jarod will simply become a termination contract, and we _will_ put Jarod out of our misery, _permanently_.  Either way, the expense of hunting for Jarod will end one year from today.”

 

Miss Parker's jaw dropped open, but it was Lyle who broke through his shock first.  “Kill him?  After all this?”

 

“Precisely,” Raines intoned in an executioner’s voice.  “One way or another, a year from now, Jarod will no longer pose the kind of threat to the Centre that we’ve been dealing with all along…”

 

“Except for the last five years,” Miss Parker muttered sotto voce to her teammates.  Everyone, from her team to Lyle's and even Raines himself, all knew that Jarod’s disappearance had been absolute.  He hadn’t touched a Centre back account, hacked the email client program or left a single clue to his whereabouts or activities since two fairly short phone calls not long after the incident in Scotland.  Evidently five years’ worth of being left completely unmolested wasn’t enough for Raines.

 

“The necessary players are in place to simply take him out, but you have a year to pull this iron out of the fire.”  Raines’ voice held a note of satisfaction as he lowered himself back into his chair and arranged the plastic tubing so that his access to the oxygen was unimpeded.  “Bring Jarod back to the Centre where he belongs, and the Assistant Chairmanship will be assured to the one who succeeds.  Fail, and well…”  He drew in an exaggeratedly long and noisy gasp.  “It will be the last task you fail at.”

 

Miss Parker and Lyle glanced at each other, and she could see that neither one of them was pleased at the announcement.  “Why a year?” Lyle decided to ask the question that had occurred to them both.  “If you’re that worried, why not just take out the termination contract and…”

 

“Because that’s about the amount of time that the Centre can continue to afford to finance a losing campaign,” Raines wheezed noisily.  “Despite everything, Jarod alive and back in our control again represents the return of a sizeable investment and profit potential.  While we would rather our property be returned, we have to be practical and know when to cut our losses before they swallow us whole.”  He gasped again.  “Of course, each of you will continue to carry out your other official job duties at the same time.”

 

“What?!”  Both Miss Parker and Lyle burst out in outrage.

 

“You…” Raines looked at Miss Parker, “will begin a complete overhaul of the Centre mainframe with an eye to increased security.  You…” the blue eyes landed on Lyle, “will review the sweeper/cleaner corps with an eye to streamlining the corps and eliminating deadwood from the roster.  You…” he looked first at Sydney and then at Fischer, “each have research projects that need your attention when not directly participating in the retrieval effort.  You…” he looked at Broots and Corky, “should be helping your various team members in whatever they require of you.”

 

“How the hell do you expect…” Lyle began, taking a step forward, only to be stopped by Willy stepping forward from the side protectively to face off in a challenge.  Miss Parker saw the grimace that filled her twin's face, and she knew her face looked much the same. 

 

“How the hell do you expect us to do the jobs of two people and still be successful at finding Jarod?” she interrupted, asking the question that Lyle was clearly starting.

 

“That really isn’t my concern, is it?” Raines replied caustically.  “It’s yours – and now you know the consequences of failure at either or both tasks.”    He then motioned with his hand, as if brushing the entire group aside and out of his consideration.  “Now get back to work – and _find Jarod_.”

 

The sweepers at the back of the office swept the doubled glass doors open again, and as Miss Parker turned to leave, she saw Sydney tug at Broots’ sleeve and jerk his nose in the direction of the exit.  Broots staring to move seemed to unfreeze the rest of the collected members of both teams, who walked in silence from the office.  Miss Parker pushed through the group and punched the button to summon the elevator, and then stood facing away from the silvered door with her hands at her waist. 

 

Lyle pushed through the others, just as his sister had, and then faced off with her again.  “And just what the hell do you think we’re going to do about _that_?” he demanded with an angry gesture toward the glass doors.

 

Miss Parker looked at him with a mixture of surprise and amusement.  “I suggest that we both dig in and work very hard to find Jarod before the other does,” she drawled mockingly.  “A year can pass by faster than you think.”

 

“We need to pool our resources…” Lyle grabbed her elbow again and tried to turn her aside from the elevator.  “If we work together…”

 

“You’d take the credit all for yourself,” Miss Parker hissed, jerking her arm from his grasp as the metal door slid aside.  “I’m not doing your work for you, Lyle – I have enough on my plate already with the hunt for Jarod and running SIS – so go brown-nose Raines and see if he’ll give you an extension to the time limit.”  She turned and stepped into the elevator behind her team – twisting and putting out a hand to restrain Lyle or any of his team from getting into the small space with her.  “You can start by waiting for the next elevator.”

 

Lyle’s mouth worked soundlessly, but the elevator door had already begun to slide across the opening again.

 

“A year, Miss Parker?” Broots asked, his voice downright fearful.  “A year, or we all get a one-way ticket to Africa?”

 

“Oh shut up and let me think,” she responded with a sigh and leaned against the back wall of the elevator.  A brief look of surprise flitted across her face as she remembered the folder she’d been handed, and she opened it.  “Tell me, boys, when was the last time any of us roomed in a fancy hotel or ate out at a world-class restaurant while on the clock?”

 

Sydney shook his head slowly.  “I don’t think we’ve ever done any of that, Miss Parker,” he replied quietly.

 

“What are you thinking?” Sam asked, his voice filled with quiet determination, “that someone is up to something?”

 

Miss Parker closed the folder and tapped the smooth manila against her chest thoughtfully.  “I’m going to want to go through this very carefully…  In the meanwhile…”  She shot each of her team members a sharp glance.  “Syd, I want you going back through all the crap we’ve collected from Jarod over the years to see if you can’t get an insight from the accumulation that you would have missed looking at it all one piece at a time.  We need to find your Science Club experiment, and we need to find him yesterday.  Broots, I want you digging through the mainframe.  I want a copy of every file mentioning Jarod’s name printed out.  Sam…”

 

“My job is to watch your back, Miss Parker,” the dark-haired sweeper stated darkly.  “I’ll just keep doing my job.”

 

There was a metallic ring as the elevator slowed to a halt.  “Move it, boys,” Miss Parker ordered as the door slid aside again to let them out on SL-17, where Sydney had his Sim Lab and Broots had his small computer lab set up a few doors away.  “We confer again at four o’clock.”  All four of them lifted wrists to check their watches, and then Miss Parker was striding away down the corridor to the office she used on the sublevel when she wanted to be closer to her team.  Less than a heartbeat behind her was Sam, easily keeping up with the pace she set.

 

“I’ve got a bad feeling about this,” Broots mentioned to Sydney, his sotto voce carrying back to her even over the clicking of her heels on the polished cement flooring.

 

“Since when do we _not_ have a bad feeling about working here, my friend?” Sydney returned in a tired voice.  “I’ll be in the storeroom, if you need me.” 

 

“A _really_ bad feeling about this,” Miss Parker muttered to herself and Sam, agreeing with her teammates and, with a glance up and down the corridor to see who might be watching or listening – other than the omnipresent surveillance cameras – pushed open the door and stepped into the darkness of her office.  She hadn't asked the others to do anything she wasn't going to be doing herself, and something told her that digging through the Centre mainframe today was going to be a daunting task indeed.

 

oOoOo

 

“Gerald O’Brien is here,” announced Kristen’s soft voice over the telephone.

 

“Good!  Good!  Send him in,” Raines wheezed and pulled another folder from his In Box, this one quite a bit thicker than those he’d handed to his “children”.  The glass door opened silently, and he could see Willy nodding a tall and strikingly handsome dark haired man into the office.  “Mr. O’Brien,” the gaunt Chairman called breathlessly and motioned to a chair that had been moved back into place in front of the massive desk.  “Please, sit down.”

 

“It’s an honor to meet you, sir,” O’Brien leaned over the huge desk and extended his hand to his boss.  “It’s been a while…”

 

“Yes, but I can remember the way Les Vickering was talking about you just the other day, in our Financial Planning meeting, and that was what convinced me to call on your expertise.”  Raines waited until the accountant had found his seat before pulling in another noisy lungful of air.  “I’ve heard about your investigative talents tracing down that kickback scheme in Purchasing and Receiving last quarter.  Les estimated that firing those two warehouse managers would save the Centre nearly four hundred thousand dollars this fiscal year alone.”

 

“Thank you, sir.”  O’Brien’s face colored lightly.  “Just doing my job, sir.”

 

“Well, I hope those skills of yours are exceptionally keen, because I have a much tougher nut for you to crack for me.”  Raines pushed the manila folder across the desk.

 

“For you, sir?”  O’Brien’s thick dark brows rose on his face.  “I’m working directly for you on this, not for Mr. Vicker…”

 

Raines shook his head violently.  “As of this morning, your job title has changed, and you’ll be reporting directly to me as your superior.  I don’t need any other fingers in this particular pot.”  The skeletal finger pointed.  “Take a moment to glance through that; tell me what you see?”

 

O’Brien opened the folder and stared.  Raines knew that, looking up at him from a glossy photograph, would be the strikingly beautiful woman otherwise known around the Centre as the “Ice Queen”: old man Parker’s daughter herself.  He looked back up at Raines.  “Miss Parker, sir?”

 

“Keep reading,” Raines directed, a smirk of satisfaction on his face.

 

Raines watched the face of the younger man as he began flipping through the documents he’d been given.  In that folder were eight personnel sheets – one on each of the retrieval team members, including the Parker twins – as well as a list of budgetary irregularities each of them was suspected of perpetrating.  Finally O’Brien looked up again.  “So you want me to oversee them all?”

 

“That’s right,” Raines nodded.  “I want to know when each of them buys a box of Kleenex, and I want all receipts and claims forms to go directly to you.  You will make an immediate determination of propriety and either forward them to Bookkeeping or, in case of _im_ propriety, submit a report to my personal sweeper.”

 

O’Brien frowned.  “That’s a little irregular in and of itself, isn’t it?” he asked, his tone wary.

 

“The project represented by those eight people has been a financial black hole,” Raines exploded and then wheezed.  “I want to make sure that the money spent by the Centre is called for and not some extravagance.”  He pulled in another noisy breath and sat for a moment, trying to calm himself and eventually pulled on his oxygen tank once more.  “You will present yourself to both Miss Parker and Mr. Lyle, and you will give each of them one of the copies of the letter of introduction you’ll find at the back of that folder.”  He gasped again.  “From that moment on, you will be directly responsible for making sure that the monies used in that project are used appropriately and at a reasonable level.”

 

O’Brien closed the folder, placed it on his lap and put a hand down on the folder gently.  “You can count on me, sir.”

 

“Trimming the waste from this project will mean a regular bonus of thirty percent of what you’ve saved,” Raines related with a keen eye to the younger man’s face.  “Each month that the actual costs of the project are less than the previous years’, you’ll receive an extra check reflecting that.”  The blue eyes began to glitter, and Raines gloated silently at finding the man's mercenary vulnerability.  “However, if you don’t find excesses and trim them, you may find that your employment here will be re-evaluated.”

 

There was a quick flash of alarm and then something that almost looked like anger cross the young man’s face, giving Raines reason to feel deep satisfaction.  Now this O’Brien character had seen and heard both the carrot and stick that would drive his performance for the next twelve months.  He knew what the consequences could be either way.

 

“Go on now,” Raines waved at the accountant.  “My sweeper will have information as to the precise location of both Miss Parker and Mr. Lyle for you when you’re ready to make their acquaintance.  I suggest you not wait too long for that to take place.”

 

“I won’t,” O’Brien stressed and rose to his feet.  “And thank you, sir, for the confidence you’ve place in me…”

 

“See to it that it wasn’t misplaced,” Raines warned and nodded, and then very deliberately opened yet another folder on his desk and began to read.  A more clear sign of dismissal couldn’t be made.

 

It wasn’t until the glass door closed behind the young accountant that Raines looked up again and then turned to stare out the glass window behind him at the expanse of manicured estate that surrounded the above ground facility, including the Tower.  If there was one thing he hated, it was dealing with bean counters.  The Triumvirate had been climbing in and out of the Centre ledger sheets for the last two months, pointing out every last discrepancy and possibility of fraud, and still the steady bleed of money had continued. 

 

Although once with more than adequate slush funds to protect it against anything the winds of ill-fortune could have slung at it, the Centre had seen its supply of liquid capital had been steadily shrinking.  Worse: the rate of decline had been increasing sharply over the past two years.  Raines leaned back in his chair and folded his hands in his lap as he let his eyes wander aimlessly across green grass to the shining band of blue that was the ocean beyond.  He knew at least part of the reason for the decline, of course; but he wasn’t ready to go public to the Triumvirate with the details of Project Duplicity quite yet, not until there had been measurable success demonstrated by at least one of the test subjects.

 

Duplicity – the ideal answer to the incredible success and then complete debaucle that had been the Pretender Project – was now nearly eighteen years old.  Raines had to smile with satisfaction every time he considered the entire premise of the project.  The Centre still was on the cutting edge of technology and building upon the successes it had achieved.  Jarod was but one individual, raised in a far more lax environment by someone whose scruples had been taught to the genius as well as the more obvious subject material.  Duplicity took care of that, both in number as well as environment.

 

Gemini, long ago 'rescued' by Jarod and his father, had been but a prototype – a very successful prototype – that had unfortunately slipped through the Centre’s fingers.  But he had by no means been intended or indeed remained the sole progeny of the process.  Moving the young man to the Alaskan facility had been a huge mistake, one that had brought the escaped Pretender's attention and made liberating the nearly-grown Pretender embarrassingly easy.  It was also a mistake that hadn't been repeated since.

 

Jarod had been held by the Centre long enough that there had been a more than adequate supply of his genetic material, and in the intervening years, the cloning process had been streamlined to eliminate many of the grotesque “errors” that had arisen during the initial tests.  Duplicity had taken the highly successful process and put it to use creating copies of the original genius.  Twelve of them in all had been successfully created, including Gemini, but Sudden Infant Death had claimed the life of one infant four years ago, and Jarod had run off with Gemini.  This left ten Duplicates housed in a research facility located in the depths of federal wilderness lands in northern Montana where they would be housed and educated and work. 

 

Building the facility on protected land had cost a modest fortune in bribes and contract kickbacks, but setting up ten Sim Labs and staffing those labs with properly trained and motivated personnel had been one of the most expensive parts of the entire effort.  Neither expense appeared anywhere on the official Centre balance sheets, nor did any direct mention of Project Duplicity or its intent exist within the Centre mainframe, where Jarod and his infuriating habit of uncovering secrets could trip over it.  Personal discretionary bank accounts from previous Chairmen – accounts that had once been fed regularly by skimming a small percent of the profit from simulations performed by Jarod – had been the first to be tapped, because they were the ones that the Centre didn’t officially know about in the first place.  But those accounts had run out about the time that Jarod had escaped nearly ten years before – and the collective expense had only grown higher the older each of the Duplicates had become.

 

All he had to do was hang on a little bit longer, Raines reassured himself.  Cancer, the clone who was but eleven months younger than Gemini, was almost ready to begin running full-scale SIMs; and Leo, thirteen months younger Cancer, was poised at nearly the same stage of readiness.  Once word started to leak out that the Centre was back in simulation business in a big way, Raines knew the profit would once more flood in – and those discretionary accounts that had been retired with but a few hundred dollars in them would soon fatten again.

 

Which was why the increase of discretionary expenditures over the last four months was so infuriating!  The last thing he needed was to have the Accounting Department declare a fiscal emergency and notify the stockholders of looming insolvency; that could have a cascade effect that would result in bankruptcy on the very eve of those huge, long-term profits.  All of the departments had been put under the watch of an auditor drawn from the accounting pool in an effort to stem just enough of the cost to see the Centre through to the solvency Cancer and Leo would bring.

 

All he had to do was hang on a little bit longer.  It would be his mantra – his prayer – because in it was his legacy as Chairman.

 

oOoOo

 

Miss Parker shifted her gaze back and forth between the open spreadsheet on her computer screen and the hardcopy expense report that Mr. Raines had handed her.  The two resembled each other only in terms of the ledger account number and the number of actual entries; but the amounts listed as having been submitted for each of those entries, however, was drastically inflated on the sheet Raines had handed her.  What was more, some of the entries that she’d submitted claims for were outright missing, and some of items Raines claimed she’d requested reimbursement for were outlandish to the point of hilarity. 

 

One item caught her eye: a claim regarding a dinner for six at the best steakhouse in all of Delaware, dated only a week ago.  Frustrated and starting to boil, Miss Parker looked up at her sweeper, standing in deceptive nonchalance with his back against the wall between her desk and her office door.  “Sam?”

 

Sam started, something she wasn't used to seeing often, and Miss Parker looked closer.  Strange; it seemed her personal sweeper was tired.  “Yes, ma’am?” he answered immediately, blinking, straightening to attention.

 

For the first time since she'd accepted the man as her bodyguard and human pitbull, she wondered whether she'd just caught the man almost dozing on the job.  Still, she had more important things to think about.  “What were we up to a week ago Wednesday night?” she asked him with a frown.

 

“Wednesday?”  Sam frowned too.  "Oh yes!  Wasn’t that the night…”

 

“Exactly.”  Miss Parker nodded in grim satisfaction and turned her monitor screen around and turned the papers in front of her around so they too could be legible from the other side of the desk.  “Come here and look at this and tell me I’m dreaming.”

 

Sam pushed away from the wall and walked over to lean over and look at the computer screen.  His frown deepened as he looked back and forth.  “But…  That can't be right.  I wasn’t there…”

 

“I know,” Miss Parker shook her head as she turned both the papers and the monitor back around where they belonged.  “I was with Evan’s foster parents watching him in a class play, and not in Dover living high on the hog.  You had the night off, if memory serves…”

 

“I was in Richmond, helping my sister move,” Sam remembered finally. 

 

“So my question to you is: who went to Dover, and who signed my name – or yours – to the receipts?”  Miss Parker flipped the page to expose a page with receipts attached and flipped through the receipts one by one. 

 

Sam glanced at them, and Miss Parker could see immediately when he noted what was bothering _her_ so much.  “Wait a minute!  That’s not your signature!” he exclaimed.  He flipped a receipt of his own and growled.  "That's not mine either."

 

“No shit, Sherlock.”  Miss Parker pulled the papers in front of her again and flopped the folder closed with a slap of the hand on the desktop.  “But this came out of the same computer…”

 

“Didn’t Mr. Raines just tell you he wanted a complete overhaul of the Centre mainframe, with an eye to security?” Sam asked, leaning hard on the clear plexiglass desk and still flipping through the hardcopy material in the folder.  “Can’t you check this out then?”

 

Miss Parker rose from her chair and wandered over to her window, leaning and staring.  “Finding this only confirms the need for more security, Sam.  It won’t necessarily get us out of hot water with…”  Her jerk of the head toward the floors of the Tower over their heads was crystal clear as to whom she was referring.

 

“But it proves that WE aren’t as big a hemorrhage as Mr. Raines considered,” Sam suggested, his tone hopeful.  “Whether the same shenanigans are being pulled on Mr. Lyle, however, is anybody’s guess…”

 

“Yeah, it would at that…”  Miss Parker ran her hands through her dark hair, pulling it back from her face in frustration and then toyed with the pendant at her neck.   “But the bitch of it is that even finding out who made up this crap won't tell us _why_.”  She stalked back over to her desk and flounced herself into her chair again.  “I’m not going to rest until I know exactly how such a stupid thing could happen – and until I know who is faking our expense reports…”

 

oOoOo

 

Sam’s internal alarm suddenly went off.  What was it that the nameless person had said all those nights ago, that Miss Parker’s probing into areas she shouldn’t would result in a possible “accident”?

 

“Uh… Miss Parker?  Why don’t you let me see what I can discover about this…”

 

Miss Parker looked up at her sweeper with surprise.  “You?  That’s not your job, Sam…”

 

He forced himself to look directly into her storm-grey eyes without flinching.  “You’re going to have your hands full with this mainframe inspection and upgrade, and I could use something to occupy my time while you confer with the Centre geek-squad.”

 

She cocked her head.  “And just how do you think you’ll go about this little hunt?”  Her tone was sarcastic, but there was a hint of gratitude behind it.  Sam knew an overhaul of the huge Centre mainframe – the repository for all the information gathered or created by the Centre – was a mammoth task in the best of times.  A little help chasing down this latest case of gremlins and outright demons within the Centre walls would be quite welcome.

 

Sam let a smile of confidence light his face, a confidence he didn’t entirely feel.  “I have a few ideas I’d like to chase down, if you don’t mind…”  When Miss Parker continued to have a skeptical expression on her face, he added, “Look.  It’s my ass on the line too here.  I didn’t see Mr. Raines making any exceptions for sweepers in his plans to ship people to Africa.”

 

“Are you sure?” 

 

Sam almost smiled.  She was ready to accept his help!  Good!  “Just let me handle this part of things, Miss Parker, and you take care of giving Mr. Raines that answer he wanted and doing the security overhaul.  How much you want to bet that this ends up being a prank Jarod pulled on the computer a long time ago, and it's just taken this long for us to uncover it…”

 

Miss Parker nodded and settled back in her chair with a sigh.  “I have to admit that I need this extra investigation like I need a hole in the head.”

 

“I can do it, Miss Parker,” he reassured her gently.  He knew better than to outright demand the job; all too often, she responded to that kind of pressure by exploding in the opposite direction than the one desired.  “Let me show you I’m more than just muscle…”

 

“You’ll report directly to me…”

 

“Of course.”  He rose.  “I think I’ll head down to Mr. Broots’ office and see if he can bring up any history of this report – or any sign of duplicate books.”

 

“Don’t forget,” Miss Parker reminded him, “I start seeing clients at two this afternoon.  I’m going to want you here…”

 

“I’ll be there, Miss Parker,” Sam reassured her firmly.  “Don’t worry about me.”  He held out his hand for the folder.  “I’ll get this stuff copied so that you can be working on that explanation Mr. Raines requested while I do a little digging.”

 

After a long look, Miss Parker stretched out her hand and gave over the folder to Sam.  “Don’t be long with that thing,” she told him.  “I’m going to want to have it on hand in a bit.”

 

“I won’t.  I’ll be right back.”

 

Sam waited until he’d managed to escape Miss Parker’s office completely before sighing deeply in relief.  That had been too close, he told himself as he hurried down the hallway to where Mr. Broots had his computer lab, where most of the office machinery for the Sim Lab and associated offices was kept.  Hopefully, however, Miss Parker would find enough to keep her attention occupied on the mainframe overhaul and let him very quietly bury that report and any questions about it. 

 

At least he'd bury that report and related questions until he knew more about who was threatening her, _and_ had formulated a plan for protecting her against herself.

 

oOoOo

 

Mr. Lyle’s eyes were like those of a shark, O’Brien thought: cold and virtually empty of anything besides an unthinking hunger for…  He blinked and shook the man’s hand, deciding that maybe it was best for him NOT to think about what Mr. Lyle was hungry for.  The stories in the Centre grapevine were lurid enough.  “Mr… O’Brien, is it?”  His name on Mr. Lyle's lips sounded oily, made him feel unclean.

 

“Yes, sir,” O’Brien turned and found the client chair in front of the dark-haired man’s desk.  “I’m the auditor Mr. Raines has appointed to oversee your expense account in regards to the Pretender Project…”

 

Something even more inhuman flickered briefly behind that cold gaze, and O’Brien felt the hackles on the back of his neck rise.  “Are you familiar with this information then?”  Lyle tapped the open folder on his desk and then handed it over to the outstretched hand.

 

“No, sir.”  Slowly O’Brien shook his head.  “This is the first time I’ve seen your records, Mr. Lyle,” he said, handing the folder back. 

 

“You didn’t put this bullshit together?”

 

“No, sir!”  The accountant shook his head vehemently this time.  “I only received my re-assignment early this morning.  Mr. Raines suggested that I take the time to introduce myself to you and your sister before…”

 

“Then you aren’t aware that most of the reason you’re here is utter and complete nonsense?”  Mr. Lyle rose and began to pace behind his desk.  “I didn’t submit claims for three nights in the Ritz in Baltimore for last month.  Hell, I didn’t even leave Delaware…”

 

“Mr. Lyle, I don’t know much about what has gone on before.  My job is to make sure what happens from now on is appropriate and reasonable…”

 

“Just get out.”  Lyle sat back down behind his desk and pointed.  “I don’t need any damned babysitter to tell me how or where I should spend the Centre’s money in the effort to bring…”  Those dead eyes looked decidedly dangerous, and the hairs rose on the back of O'Brien's neck.  “You’ll find all my receipts in order from here on out – trust me.  You can go.”

 

O'Brien was glad to get away from the eyes of the hungry shark.  He would be talking to _that_ Parker sibling as seldom as possible from now on, _that_ was for sure!

 

oOoOo

 

“There’s been a slight wrinkle in the plans.”

 

There was a pause on the other end of the line.  “Define “small wrinkle,” please…”

 

“The over-charging of the Pretender Project teams has been uncovered – and Raines has assigned an auditor to do nothing but oversee their books from now on.”

 

“Someone we can control?”

 

“Probably not.  He’s one of the top auditors they have on staff, and Raines has removed him from the accounting department entirely and made him accountable directly to the Tower.  More than likely, I’ll not see him in this part of the Centre again for a while.”

 

“That’s unfortunate,” the voice agreed with a small sigh, “but the Pretender Project isn’t the only high-security secret project the Centre has going.  We’ll be fine, just turning our attention to some of the other…”

 

“You don’t understand!  Miss Parker herself was part of the group placed under audit and told that the cost-overruns for her team were becoming a problem.  She’s not an idiot; she’ll see some of the discrepancies between her personal record and the one Raines has been given.  Face it: she’s just been given that first nudge toward starting an investigation before we’re ready to deal with her.”

 

Again, there was a pause on the other end of the line.  “We can’t afford to take her out of the game just yet, though.  So much of the success of this depends on keeping her in place and in the dark until it’s too late for her to do anything.  How torqued is she?”

 

“I don’t know.  I haven’t spoken to her at all since long before the meeting in Raines’ office this morning.  I _do_ know, however, that both she and Lyle were given documentation of the extraordinary reimbursement claims we’ve managed to slip through of late.  I had to order the printing job myself.”

 

“Perhaps someone in the Centre’s accounting department has sharper eyes than we’d estimated.”

 

“The Centre employs some of the brightest CPAs to graduate from university, just like we do.”

 

“Well, don’t worry about it,” the voice responded calmly.  “Like I say, we have ample directions of action to explore that losing that one way to bleed the Centre financially won’t matter much.  How goes the investigation into Lyle’s somewhat…” the voice coughed, “…”odd” taste in cuisine?”

 

“Oh, the evidence is mounting nicely.  There’s not quite enough to take to an Attorney General or to the FBI, but if he continues his activities at a regular pace, we should have more than enough to make him a liability for the Centre.”

 

“Good.  Having their Legal Department up to their chins in murder indictments rather than overseeing contract provisions will make a good diversion as things proceed.  See what you can do to speed up that end of things.”

 

“I’m taking care of it.” 

 

“Now, to the meat of the matter.  Have you made contact and gotten things moving in regards to Duplicity?”

 

“I found the man we need, and I’ve given him detailed instructions so that he knows exactly what kind of team to put together.”

 

“Any time-frame of action yet?”

 

“Not until he tells me he has all the resources on hand.”

 

“We have the Centre off-balance, although they may not know how much yet.  We don’t want to lose that advantage…”

 

“I know that!  But moving on Duplicity isn’t going to be a cake-walk, you know.  That’s one of the most secure facilities they operate in the Western Hemisphere.”

 

“We _need_ Duplicity if this is going to work, not only to give us a head-start after we bring the Centre down, but to help with tipping over their house of cards.”

 

“I know that too.  But like I said, things are starting to come together.  We need to be patient and let those who know their business do their business.  If we start trying to push things to go faster, we could ruin our chances at winning.”

 

This time, the pause on the other end of the line was a substantial one.  “Dammit, I’ll be glad when you can be working for us directly again, rather than just hearing from you once a week by voice…”

 

“It’s coming, Jim, it’s coming.  And let me tell you: I’ll be glad to be back working in the family firm myself.  Fifteen years undercover has been more than enough for me.  I’m gonna want my own corner office…”

 

“I got one waiting for you, complete with a view of the bay.”

 

“Well, then, let me get back to work so that I can move into that office sooner rather than later.”

 

“You’ll call again?”

 

“Don’t I always?”

 

“Be careful, and watch out for that Parker bitch.  I don’t put anything past her.”

 

“Don’t worry.  I have a couple of diversions up my sleeve if I start to see her poking around where we don’t want her looking.”

 

“Nothing that takes her out yet!”  The voice was emphatic.  “Not yet!

 

“No…  But it will be enough to maybe give her a decent set of ulcers and knock her out of the arena without removing her from the game per se.  Trust me.”

 

“You’re my brother.  Of course I trust you.”

 

“I’ll talk to you later.”

 

“Good luck.”

 

oOoOo

 

Jim McKenna used the forefinger of the hand holding the telephone handset to rub below his nose thoughtfully for a moment before finally replacing the device in the cradle on his desk.  It hardly seemed possible that Jake, his twin brother, had been stuck in the Centre for fifteen years now, planted there by their father in anticipation of the day the Eire Foundation could mount an attack on the firm that had been their idea from the very start.

 

Almost a hundred years ago, two men had met aboard a ship carrying them from Southampton to New York and together come up with an innovative idea: to build a firm dedicated to sitting at the cutting edge of scientific technology and to make such discoveries as might come from within a practical product to be marketed globally.  Charles Parker and Eugene McKenna had reached New York, pooled their limited resources to find a roof over their heads, and gone to work.  Both were ambitious, both were adroit at finding ways to profit from their work at a higher rate than the regular worker.  Between them, it had taken but five years to buy out a small pharmacy in the center of Manhattan and hire a chemist.  Eugene had an idea on how to build the kind of organization that had really been HIS brainchild, but it was Charles who truly had the knack to make money.

 

At the time, it had been more than mere convenience to have Parker’s name on all of the official documents.  After all, Eugene McKenna was a wanted man back in Scotland.  And it had been that little fact which had made it possible, as The Centre Pharmaceuticals began to grow into a bigger and bigger enterprise that eventually relocated to a facility located in Delaware, for Parker to slowly and surely push McKenna out of any position of authority within the organization.  In fact, the bulk of the funds used to build The Centre had been Parker’s, and it didn't take that long before Parker began to deny that McKenna had been the creative genius with the spark of the idea.  McKenna was treated – and was informed in no uncertain terms – that he always had been and always would be only a paid associate. 

 

A mere employee.  A nobody.

 

McKenna had left the Centre an aging and embittered man, his idea for success in the New World had been stolen and turned into something quite different from what he’d intended by a man he’d trusted.  McKenna had been smart enough, however, to have been stockpiling his meager profits over the years; and so he had a tidy sum to use to relocate himself and his family to Philadelphia and begin again, using much the same tactics as he and Parker had used – only this time, starting with a machine shop.  The Eire Foundation had been the result of that.

 

Vincent McKenna had kept his father’s spirit alive and, over the fifty years of his tenure as Chairman, seen the Foundation move into research fields that the Centre had largely ignored: electronics and weapons development.  The U.S. Government had found the Foundation’s services and products very useful, and _that_ had made it possible for McKenna to build his family’s Foundation into an organization easily the equal of the Centre in many ways.  Then, ten years ago, Vincent had died of a heart attack in the middle of a board meeting, leaving the Foundation in the hands of his twin sons. 

 

The Electronics Technologies Department had transformed itself into a Micro-electronics Technologies Department that was now a leader in the newly opened field of nano-technology.  Foundation weapons components were now basic parts of a goodly portion of the US arsenal.  And finally the Foundation had started dabbling in some of the fields the Centre had dominated: pharmaceuticals and psychological studies.

 

Jake had stayed behind in Philadelphia to run things, building on the behemoth left by his father until the Foundation was in a position to compete, sometimes successfully, against the Centre.  Jim, with his genius for high finances and affinity for numbers in general, had already been convinced to go undercover in the Centre by his father, and Jake began to take advantage of having that inside information.  The McKenna family knew the value and the process of the blood feud, and Jim was more than willing to go and spy on their immediate enemy.  His position made it possible to counter-bid on contracts, and thus elbow the Centre out of deals on a regular basis now. 

 

The Foundation found that taking a page from the Centre’s rulebook had been a very effective tool in maintaining their own internal security.  Both twins had been taught the benefits of ruthlessness at their father’s knee, always with the idea that, someday, the McKennas would win back from the Parkers what was theirs by right.  And so, when expedient, Jake had used intimidation, bribery, fraud and blackmail to force people to do as he wished them to.  His employees were paid well for their services and treated with both respect and consideration.  But there was little attempt at double-talk or subtlety: the internal security force was known as “guards”, “assassins” or “arsonists”; and cameras were everywhere in the research facility. 

 

And now, it seemed, seventy years’ worth of revenge-plotting was about to pay off. 

 

Jake’s eyes glittered.  With the Centre gone, the Foundation would be playing to an immense field with very few other competitors capable of mounting much of a game. 

 

But first things first… 

 

He pushed the intercom button.  “Is Mr. Simmons here yet?” he asked impatiently. 

 

“Yes, sir,” Angie, his secretary, responded immediately.  “He’s been waiting for you to finish your call for about five minutes now.”

 

“Send him on in, then.”  Jake smiled to himself and folded his hands on his desk.  This Simmons fellow had come with the kind of impeccable record that any large corporation or foundation’s financial department would drool over.  Getting him hired and busy at work securing and bolstering the Foundation’s fiscal stability in preparation for new and expanded business had been a priority item for him ever since the employment application had been brought to his attention.  After all, the _last_ thing the Foundation needed was to walk down the same path as its nemesis, the Centre, had been walking for the last five years under William Raines.

 

The door at the far end of the huge office swung open on silent hinges, letting the tall, dark-haired man past the muscular guard.  Jake took in the man’s demeanor and bearing and immediately knew that this was the kind of man he wanted working for the Foundation – Simmons was apparently sure of himself and exuded talent.  The perfectly trimmed moustache and goatee spoke of attention to detail – ideal traits for one in the position to which the candidate was aspiring.  Dark eyes glittered with almost alarming intelligence behind a simple pair of wire-rimmed glasses. 

 

Pleased that the man had matched the resume, McKenna rose and extended his hand across the desk.  “I’m Jake McKenna, Chairman of the Eire Foundation.”

 

“Jarod Simmons,” Jarod smiled and shook the red-headed man’s hand firmly, “and I’m very honored to meet you, sir.”

 


	3. Mixed Signals

Jarod climbed into the small economy sedan that he’d decided would best fit the character he would be in this Pretend and then threw his head back against the headrest once the door was closed.  This Pretend was going to take more concentration – and potentially take more out of him – than he’d even considered.  For the first time in all the Pretends he’d undertaken, he’d finally tripped over an organization that reminded him far too vividly of the Centre.  The all-present sweepers at nearly every juncture and doorway demonstrated an even higher sense of paranoia than even the Parkers had managed to instill, and there were even more surveillance cameras in plain sight than most of the high-security Centre labs had contained.  He would really have to watch his step, and his knee-jerk responses to the environmental stimuli.  His best bet, if he knew what was good for him, would be to spend the rest of the day and most of the next two days re-SIMming the plan in light of the new information.

 

Tiredly he reached into the breast pocket of his sports jacket and brought out the red notebook in which he’d stored the clipped newspaper story that had caught his attention, as well as his notes.  The initial newspaper story hadn’t been a very long one: a man had been found murdered in what looked like a simple gangland execution, leaving behind a widow and an infant son; but subsequent inquiry into both the murder victim and the circumstances had yielded a troubling conclusion: Bob Rogers had been a research engineer with an organization known as the Eire Foundation involved in weapons research and development who had recently separated from his wife of thirteen years due to what she’d alleged as a sudden personality change and an affair.  According to the wife, outgoing and philanthropic Rogers had become withdrawn and sullen over the past eight months or so; and according to Arlene, Rogers’ estranged wife, had spent endless hours on the telephone with someone named Nicky. 

 

It had taken Jarod three days to trace the calls made on Rogers’ home phone to “Nicky” to an exchange of the Philadelphia office of the FBI.  “Nicky” turned out to be Nicky Van Derling – Special Agent Nicholas Van Derling.  Suddenly it had become apparent that Rogers had uncovered something he felt important enough to bring in law enforcement, probably related to his job, and that something was considered important enough to the Foundation that he’d been eliminated rather than have that information exposed or acted upon.

 

Jarod had then done his homework on the Eire Foundation itself, delving into the company history, and had come away feeling like he needed to take a shower.  Except for the name and the names of the major players, the Foundation was in many ways very much like the Centre, only the Centre had been around as a legal entity for nearly a decade longer.  Originally a research and development firm with a couple of solid lines of investigation, the Foundation had blossomed into a global enterprise commanding a clientele that included governments and corporations alike.  He had been surprised, however, when it hadn’t occurred to him that the similarities between the Centre and the Foundation were more than just skin-deep.  Walking into the place today had required real discipline; there was something about the headquarters of the Foundation that had triggered a horrifying case of déjà vu. 

 

Fully half of that impression had come as a result of his final job interview with the Chairman of the Foundation himself.  Jake McKenna was obviously a man who was more than capable of seeing through a flimsy story, and Jarod knew he’d have to remember to not fudge an iota on his cover story.  McKenna had a reputation among his peers for being extraordinarily ruthless in pursuit of a desired goal, and there were many rumors of politicians, legislators and law enforcement officials bought and paid for or even removed from office with Foundation funding.  Now that he’d been in the place, Jarod had a hunch that the order to remove Rogers as a problem had most likely come from that well-appointed office he’d just been in.  He also knew, however, he was up against a worthy opponent in proving his suspicion to a degree that would at least lend credence to any confession that might be wrung from the man eventually, and to do so in such a manner that he’d be able to disengage from his Pretend with his freedom and anonymity intact.

 

Jarod sighed, sat up straighter and put the key in the ignition of the vehicle.  His sister, Emily, would probably be home from work already and wondering where he was.  She had agreed to put him up in her apartment while he ran his Pretend; actually, she’d insisted upon it.  She, like her parents and his other brothers – Ethan and JD – were never pleased when Jarod would decide to put his unique talents for uncovering inconvenient truths to practice in order to get justice for another underdog.  Margaret and Charles had learned that too much complaining could lead to a several months-long estrangement between themselves and their Pretender son, but Emily had yet to develop tact.  Still, he had needed a place to stay in Philadelphia, and Emily’s placement in the editorial staff of the largest newspaper in the city would give him access to information he could find exceedingly handy as time when on. 

 

He looked down at his watch.  It was late, four-thirty in the afternoon already.  Emily would be home soon and busy in the kitchen preparing a meal for the two of them, and it was time to retire to a place where he could re-evaluate his Pretend in relative peace.  He’d have to remember to say very little about the similarities that he’d discovered between the Foundation and the Centre to her during this Pretend.  Emily was one of the most vocal advocates of his having cut off all communication with the Centre when their family had finally reunited, and she’d no doubt be worried that Jarod would be getting himself in over his head with another place equally evil. 

 

She had little to worry about, however. 

 

Jarod had had no reason to stay in touch with either of them.  Miss Parker finally was as fully informed about the truth of her family as she could be and still she was unwilling to leave, and most of Sydney’s secret wounds had been uncovered and were finally healing a little with his mentor no more willing to leave the Centre than Miss Parker.  Dropping away from the Centre radar, then, had been hilariously simple.  After all, the only reason he’d stayed _on_ their radar was because of the little clues he’d left behind to be discovered by the team following on his trail. 

 

The Pretend he’d done in Miami immediately after the incident on the Isle of Carthis had been the cut-off point.  At the time, it had been weeks since last he’d called either Miss Parker or Sydney, and he simply had pulled up stakes from that Pretend and left Florida without giving any indication of where he was headed or what he intended.  He hadn’t even left behind the red notebook to give evidence that the man they were looking for was he, nor had he spoken to any of the Cuban family he’d stayed with about what his next plans were.  For all intents and purposes, the trail of the Centre’s escaped Pretender had evaporated into thin air in a barrio street that would be difficult to discover at best.

 

He’d then spent six months on his parents’ new sprawling farm in upstate Pennsylvania, six months that had seen him finally learn all about the dynamics of living in a real family.  Ethan and JD – as Gemini had perversely chosen to be called, short for 'Jarod Dupicate' – each were still living on the farm, giving Jarod siblings as well as parents to grow close to.  For a while, just knowing that he was finally in a place where he _belonged_ , not as a piece of property, but as a loved family member, had been enough. 

 

That feeling of sufficiency had lasted exactly six months. 

 

Those six months, while in so many ways exactly what he’d wanted for so long, had finally worn on him in ways he could have never expected.  However wonderful he’d dreamed having a mother could be, he’d eventually come to resent his mother’s insistence on trying to direct his life and his choices.  In the end, he began to miss the relative freedom of moving from place to place without anyone else to gainsay him or attempt to dissuade him from helping those who couldn’t help themselves achieve a bit of justice. 

 

His first Pretend in over half a year had taken place in New York City, and the distance away from the family and the slipping into old habits and practices became more an expression of rebellion and disillusionment than anything else.  When he’d returned to the farm, things had eased somewhat with Ethan and JD teasing him mercilessly about his “Superman Complex,” only to have the same feeling of constriction and disillusion develop over time once more. 

 

Since then, he’d managed to find an excuse to practice what he was coming to consider his unique art form every eight to ten weeks, with a couple of weeks of relaxation and simple farm labor on what he considered the family estate to clear his mind in between times.  Margaret and Charles had eventually resigned themselves to the fact that their oldest child was too wild to be held down too long in one place, and accept that his returning to the fold when the Pretend was through was as much of a family tie as Jarod would ever give them.

 

His cell phone chirped at him, and he smiled as he checked the caller ID.  “Hi Em,” he greeted his caller lightly.

 

“Jar!  Are you on your way home yet?”

 

“Yup.  Need something?” 

 

“Can you stop at the grocers and pick up a head of lettuce?  I forgot it when I went shopping the other day…”

 

“One head of lettuce,” he nodded as he put the car in reverse and carefully backed out of the visitor’s parking place near the main entrance of the Foundation.  “Anything else?”

 

“Well?  Did you get the job?”

 

He smiled.  She knew the basics of what he was up to; it had been a case of being honest with her as he’d accepted her invitation to take up residence in her guest bedroom.  “I start on Monday,” he told her with just the right note of enthusiasm.  “ _and_ I got into the department I wanted to.”

 

“Congratulations, big brother!”

 

“Yeah…” Jarod grimaced at the steering wheel, unwilling to consider whether that was an accomplishment worthy of congratulations or not.  “I’ll see you in a few minutes then, as soon as I pick up the lettuce.”  He eased the sedan to a halt and watched the traffic on the main road for a comfortable space into which he could slip. 

 

He put the cell phone on the dashboard in the little pocket he’d designed for it that included a plug for a hands-free headset and took note of where he was.  There was a supermarket on the main street that he’d travel on his way to Emily’s home, so picking up her lettuce wouldn’t take much more time at all.  He could enjoy her home-cooked meal, fend off her questions as best he could and basically relax the way any working man would after a long day.  And then, when Emily headed off to bed, he could begin the mental relaxation exercises that would lead him into a state where he could review the plan as he’d SIMmed it and incorporate the security information about the physical site he’d learned about.

 

Then he would try not to have a nightmare, and something told him _that_ might be the hardest part of all.

 

oOoOo

 

Jerry O’Brien sighed and stuck his framed diploma into the small cardboard box that the sweeper had brought him earlier.  In a way, he was excited to be obviously moving up in the world, out from under the thumb of the exacting Les Vickering into a situation where he worked directly for the Chairman himself.  But the interview he’d finally managed with the other team leader of the Pretender Project had been no less stressful than the first, making him wonder if he’d jumped from a frying pan and into a fire.  Miss Parker had been no friendlier than had Mr. Lyle, although she had been much less threatening.  She too had asked him about his familiarity with the documentation of what she termed “the alleged over-runs,” and O’Brien knew then that he’d best familiarize himself very completely with whatever information Mr. Raines was basing his actions.

 

“So you’re leaving us?” asked a deep voice from behind him.

 

“That’s what they tell me,” O’Brien answered without turning.  The voice of the head of the accounting office was unmistakable.  “I’m supposed to move to SL-17…”

 

“That’s what Mr. Raines told me when he called me about an hour ago,” Les Vickering nodded his freckled face soberly.  “I tried to hang onto you, but Mr. Raines was determined…”

 

“You know…” O’Brien turned with a hand on his hip, “I have a feeling something’s not exactly right.  Mr. Raines was so certain that these people were stealing him blind, that they were using Centre funds to maintain themselves in a lavish lifestyle.   And yet I got told very clearly by both of them that fully half of what they’d been accused of doing was falsified.”

 

“Really?”  Vickering’s brows rose toward his hairline.  “Do you really expect the accused to ever do anything but protest their innocence?”

 

O’Brien’s face fell.  “No,” he admitted, “but I just have a gut feeling about this.  These folks weren’t just putting on an act, they were MAD about something”

 

“About getting caught…”

 

“Nope.  About being set up.”  The younger man shrugged and turned. 

 

“Well, you just do your job, and Mr. Raines will be pleased,” Vickering told him in a firm tone.  “And with any luck, when you’ve taken care of whatever you need to, you’ll end up back up here, in the sun…”  The red-haired man glanced in the direction of the windows situated high on the wall that let in the light from the late afternoon sun.

 

O’Brien shivered.  The very idea of spending his entire workday seventeen floors UNDER ground was rattling, and he couldn’t imagine Miss Parker or any of the rest of her team having been down there and working like that for years on end.  “I’ll be glad,” he commented thinly.  He reached down and picked up his little box.  “I guess this is all of it, then.”

 

Vickering stuck his hand out.  “Good luck on your new assignment, O’Brien.  Make us all proud.”

 

The younger man nodded bleakly and moved past his former superior on the way out of the mass of cubicles that was the home of most of the Centre’s accounting staff.

 

oOoOo

 

Jake McKenna's brows furled as he watched the auditor leave the protective shelter of the accounting department.  Already those two had found some of the creative claims, had they?  That didn’t necessarily bode all that badly; after all, Jim had reminded him that the creative financial tinkering had been going on in a number of different directions for quite a while now.  This one had probably surfaced first because of Mr. Raines’ near-obsession with reacquiring the escaped Pretender.

 

The Centre grapevine was full of the news of the Parker twins’ time on the carpet in the Tower, _and_ of the auditor forcing them to stop living so high on the hog.  There was a sense of glee at news of the humiliation of the people most capable of intimidation, people whom other people moved away from as they walked down the corridors of the Centre.

 

McKenna picked a circuitous route through the cubbies on his way back to his office at the very rear of the room, taking the time to look over the shoulders of the workers who were his responsibility.  He kicked at the chair of one dozing accountant, bringing him upright and alert and nearly bumping his nose on his monitor screen, and hit the close program keys on a popular solitaire game for another clerk.  It made him feel a little better to keep his people in line, although he was beginning to feel the chafe of being stuck in a firm he so detested.

 

Fifteen years was a long time, a long time to wear a name that wasn’t really his own, to have friends who didn’t know the man behind the mask, to never socialize with family members.  He’d given up a lot to play this role: a co-Chairmanship with Jim, a fiancé who would have never understood the need to adopt a completely new name and identity.  His father had asked, and like the good son he was, he’d not thought twice.

 

Until now.

 

He wanted out.  God how he wanted out! 

 

The moment he was in his office, he carefully shut the door and sat down at his desk already rifling through his full Rolodex file for the proper card.  Then he placed the call.

 

“Well?” he demanded harshly the moment the line was picked up.  Charles Delgado was supposed to be one of the top wet-work experts to have ever been honorably discharged from Special Ops, and Delgado knew they were working under a time restraint.

 

“I have my team,” the voice on the other end of the line announced with a touch of triumph.  “Good men, experts in their fields.  I served with a couple of them…”

 

“About time,” McKenna mumbled to himself and then cleared his throat.  “Call them and tell them to be at the corner of 8th and Pine in Dover at eight o’clock tomorrow night.  It's time they learned the details of the job I need done, and time to get a schedule of action in place.”

 

“Sure thing, boss,” the voice drawled.  “Eight PM at 8th and Pine – you got it.”

 

“Don’t be late,” McKenna warned and then hung up. 

 

He’d have to be careful, he thought and then sighed.  His time in this hellhole was coming to an end; the last thing he needed to do was to ruin everything.

 

oOoOo

 

“You came!”  Evan beamed and dashed across the living room and into his big sister’s arms.

 

“I wouldn’t forget that this was the weekend you’re supposed to be with me, Little Man,” Miss Parker hugged her little brother tightly and then looked up into Margot Laughton’s round face and smiled.  “I take it he’s all packed?”

 

“Oh, you know how he is about these visits, Miss Parker,” was the response.  “He came home from school hardly able to concentrate on anything but getting all of his stuff packed, and then has been back and forth to the window looking for you for the last hour.  He was starting to make me dizzy!”

 

“Margot!” Evan complained and then turned excited blue-grey eyes on his sister again.  “What are we going to do this weekend, Sissy?”

 

“Well,” Miss Parker rose to her full height, “Grandpa Bill wants us to go to dinner tomorrow…”

 

“Aw…”  Evan’s dislike for his grandfather had never been a secret, and his grandfather’s insistence that a condition of his weekends with his big sister was a certain number of hours with his grandfather too had been an irritant to them both.  “Can’t we, just once…”

 

Miss Parker shook her head sadly, and Margot put her hand on her foster-son’s shoulder.  “Now Evan, he _is_ your grandfather…”

 

“He smells funny, and he always asks me all kinds of funny questions…”

 

“We’ll just make sure we do all sorts of fun stuff otherwise, to make up for it,” Miss Parker promised and reached for a backpack that looked positively overstuffed.  “Get your suitcase…”  She exchanged an understanding glance with his foster mother.  No doubt Evan had packed nearly everything of any value to him again, as he did so often.

 

“Sunday night?” Margot asked quietly.

 

“Probably late Sunday night,” Miss Parker agreed in an equally quiet voice.  “I’ll get him back in time for a good night’s sleep before school, but not a whole lot sooner than that.”

 

Margot bent and kissed the boy on the cheek.  “You be good for your sister now…”

 

“He will,” Miss Parker assured the woman before Evan could speak for himself.  “You ready?”

 

“Yeah!!”  Evan put his free hand into his sister’s.  “Will we see Sydney this time?”

 

Miss Parker managed to disguise a sigh.  “I don’t know.  I’m not sure what he was going to be doing this weekend.  We can always call him up tomorrow morning after breakfast and find out…”

 

“I hope so,” the little boy chattered contentedly.  “He tells some of the best stories…”

 

 _What **is** it about the connection __Sydney_ _had with children?_ Miss Parker wondered as she opened the trunk of her car for Evan’s luggage.  As much as her little brother disdained visiting his grandfather, he loved to be around the old psychiatrist.  And Sydney showered the boy with attention and what she could only hope was genuine concern.  Evan would be crushed if he ever found out the old man was faking it.

 

No, she corrected herself, Sydney’s attitude around Evan had always been one of concern and affection of a grandfatherly sort.  He’d even made efforts to attend some of the school events that were the purview of parents and grandparents when Evan would bubble about it during a visit beforehand.  What was more, he never failed to regale the boy with praise afterwards.  More than once Miss Parker had caught herself wishing that Sydney had been even half as demonstrative with _her_ when she was that age, or especially in those painful and lonely months between when her mother had left her and when her father had shipped her off to boarding school.

 

“Sissy?”

 

“Hmmm?” Miss Parker answered, shaking off her reverie and closing the trunk so that she could unlock the passenger door for the boy.

 

“You OK?”

 

“I’m fine, Little Man,” she replied, finding it not all that hard to replace her thoughtful expression with a smile of affection.  “What do you say about finding a place that makes a pepperoni pizza for supper?”

 

“ _YEAH!_ ”

 

oOoOo

 

Lyle slid into one of the booths at the very back of the restaurant and barely glanced up as the waiter gave him the scripted greeting and slid a menu in front of him.  All of Lyle’s attention was on the woman who was dining alone two tables away, just as she did every Friday evening at this time.  Her blue-black hair hung long and was gathered into a simple band at the base of her neck, and her olive-colored skin was perfect.  Her face was one of classic Chinese beauty, of the sort one would find memorialized on porcelain or in a careful brush painting. 

 

“Scotch on the rocks, and I’ll have the grilled salmon tonight,” Lyle ordered absently, his glittering grey-blue eyes never leaving his prey.  He’d been stalking Roselyn Chu for five weeks now, spending every weekend moment graphing her habits and established routes and routines.  Friday nights were spent here, in this bayside seafood restaurant, Saturday mornings had her rising early to jog along the beach for an hour before heading north to Baltimore.  Evidently she had a sister she visited regularly there.  Sunday afternoon she would return to Dover, usually taking in a movie at the local multiplex before dining in an Italian deli on the west side.

 

Lyle nodded mutely as the waiter deposited his drink in front of him on a napkin along with his dinner salad.  Rosalyn was having the grilled salmon too; it was what she always ordered on Friday night.  Lyle had gotten into the habit of ordering the same thing as his prey, with only the stiff scotch as deviation.  He lifted the glass to his lips and sipped at the sharp amber liquor after very subtly raising his glass. 

 

Tonight would be the night: Fridays were the best times to interfere with her schedule with enough time between then and when she’d be missed to accomplish everything he intended.  Weekdays she was a hard worker, often spending ten to twelve hour workdays and carpooling with other colleagues at the office.  She had no love interests to speak of; only once had Lyle seen her out with a man.  Rosalyn Chu was an intensely private individual, exactly the kind of person that it was a pleasure to hunt.

 

His prey smiled up at the waiter, making small talk, and Lyle picked up his fork and stabbed at the salad with a perverse sense of jealousy.  He’d have to hide his feelings for the time being, however; she wasn’t his quite yet.  No, that would happen in the parking lot of the restaurant in about an hour.  Then she’d be his, and never anybody else’s ever again.

 

He had his nest all prepared: a motel room a few miles northeast, towards the Delaware-Maryland border, where he could spend his time with her without interruption.  The individual cabins that comprised the old fashioned motor inn fit into his plans beautifully. It was almost a shame that he’d only be able to visit the place once.  There was adequate privacy to allow for making sure disposal of the body afterwards wouldn’t be an issue either.

 

Lyle made another stab at the hapless lettuce of his salad.  This evening’s and the night’s pending entertainment were as much a commentary on the warning he’d received from Raines by telephone only an hour or so before the day had ended, a warning that the legal department would no longer be at his disposal if any of his extra-curricular activities caught the attention of the local constabulary.  _How dare he!_ Lyle fumed and munched his greens without moving his eyes from his prey.  He’d been doing his hunting for years and only rarely caused a legal ripple.  He had his process down to a fine science, up to and including the meal that would take place precisely twenty-four hours later.

 

Then, suddenly, his prey wasn’t alone.  The smile Lyle had considered his alone was now being bestowed on another: a tall Oriental man who bent and deposited a sweet and probably proprietary kiss on Rosalyn’s cheek before sitting down across the table from her with her hand still held within his.  From the looks of it after the waiter arrived, the man was joining Rosalyn for dinner.  Evidently his prey had a social life – perhaps even a love life – after all.  This wasn't the same man he'd seen her with before, and _this_ man acted as if the two of them shared a much more intimate relationship.

 

Lyle swore softly and then pushed his salad away in disgust.  His stomach roiled in frustration and disappointment, and he rose quickly.  With a snarl, he pulled out his wallet and left enough on the table to cover his tab for the evening – along with enough of a tip to make the waiter happy – and strode angrily from the restaurant.  His mood for the weekend was totally ruined, and he was still hungry.

 

She will be mine, Lyle promised himself.  Maybe not this weekend, but by God, Rosalyn Chu would be his exclusively soon enough!

 

oOoOo

 

Sam knocked on the door of Miss Parker’s office and then tried the doorknob, only to find it locked.  _Good_ , he thought in satisfaction; _with any luck, she's already gone for the weekend_.  He glanced down at his wristwatch and nodded to himself.  Yup, already gone, and more than likely, she’d left early to pick up her little brother Evan from his foster mother and taken him with her again.  That was something that had been happening more and more often lately.  Not that he didn’t approve; having Evan in her life had given her eyes the kind of life that had been missing for far too long.  Perhaps _her_ being involved in Evan’s life would give _him_ the opportunity to keep her distracted from doing too much investigation in the wrong corners.

 

She actually had taken little notice of the tyke until almost a year after her father’s – old Mr. Parker’s – disappearance, but the fact of the child’s existence was brought home to her on the day that Lyle had paraded the tyke past her in the drab uniform of Centre inmates.  The memory of her explosion in Mr. Raines’ office less than an hour later was still capable of bringing a twinkle to his eye.  It wasn’t often that someone was able to win such a clear victory over Mr. Lyle.  Even Mr. Raines had pretended to be shocked and appalled at the idea of a Parker being confined in such circumstances.

 

The incorporation of a child into Miss Parker’s previously childless existence had been a gradual one.  At first it had been limited to the occasional visit in the underground nursery, a situation that had lasted only long enough for the child to suddenly understand what it meant to have a big sister.  Once Miss Parker began to be the apple of little Evan’s eye and make a big thing of seeing her coming through the nursery door, the Ice Queen of the Centre had started to melt.  Sam suspected that he had been the sole witness to the moment his prickly boss had realized that she had someone to love and care for once more.  The emotions had flown across her face with the speed of light and vanished equally quickly, but the moment had changed her forever. 

 

Another meeting with Mr. Raines had been hastily arranged, and suddenly Evan was no longer living in the underground world of the Centre.  A set of foster parents had been found, a childless couple who both worked in support capacities for the Centre; and weekend-long visits with Miss Parker in her home began to happen more and more often.  The boy, once isolated and virtually unsocialized, was home-schooled for a year by a tutor hired by Miss Parker and then enrolled in public school the very next fall.  Evan was a startlingly smart kid; already Miss Parker had had to re-hire the tutor to supplement the learning process from school in order to keep the boy’s mind challenged and his temperament controlled. 

 

Sam sighed and patted his inside jacket pocket.  Yes, he still had that copy of the document Raines had given Miss Parker, as well as an idea of how to begin to track down the glaring disparity between the “official” financial record and that which Miss Parker had long since kept privately in her own spreadsheet program.

 

It had taken pulling in a favor from another of his sweeper buddies, but he’d spent his free time after the meeting that afternoon in the company of an accounting associate down on SL-2.  By the time he’d walked toward the elevator, he’d learned more than he’d ever wanted to know about the ways in which the Centre handled receipts, claims and reimbursements.  What he’d discovered was unsettling: there were enough holes in the accounting software to drive a security-breaching Greyhound bus through.  He’d have to put that fact in front of Miss Parker too, as well as Broots.  As part of the re-assessment of Centre security matters in the mainframe, it wouldn’t do to have those very-sensitive files made prey to internal hackers and vandals.

 

Speaking of Mr. Broots…

 

He turned on his heel and walked down the hallway to test the door of the computer lab that was Broots' lair, finding that one closed and locked as well.  It would take the genius of the nerdy little geek to poke through the mainframe from a protected position to try to discover the terminal stamp of the last person to modify the “official” financial records that had Miss Parker’s tail feathers in a knot. 

 

Hell!   When Sydney and Broots found out exactly what was on that document, it wouldn’t be just Miss Parker’s tail feathers in a knot.  Sam could still feel the hackles rise on his neck at the idea that someone would accuse him of wanting Centre reimbursement for four tickets to the latest heavyweight boxing championship bout in Atlantic City.  He was especially pissed about that one, considering the fact he’d been at his sister’s house in Jersey that weekend, helping her redecorate the second guest bedroom of her house into a nursery for his first nephew or niece. 

 

How dare they try to foist some of this off on _him_!  He didn’t even _like_ professional boxing!  Hockey maybe, but boxing…

 

Convinced that there was nothing that could be done until Monday morning, he shoved his hands into his jacket pocket and headed toward the elevator. 

 

“You’re still here?”

 

Sam turned his head slowly.  “Just getting ready to take off,” he answered Willy slowly, unable to put his response into a monosyllabic grunt with any grace.

 

“Quitting time was an hour ago…”

 

“I was looking things up for Miss Parker and lost track of time,” he stated clearly and in a carefully-schooled tone of neutrality that belied the twisting in his stomach.  “I’ll clock out and mark on the card to deduct an hour from the day’s shift.”

 

Willy raised his head so that he could look down his wide nose at Sam.  “I should hope so!  The last thing your boss needs is to find out her personal sweeper is attempting to pad his paycheck by working overtime without permission.”

 

“I said I’ll take care of it,” Sam repeated with only the slightest trace of increased heat.  “Is there anything else I can do for you?”

 

“No…”  Willy moved just enough as to appear to remove himself as an obstacle just as the silver door of the elevator slid to the left to open.  “See you on Monday.”

 

Sam didn’t dare trust himself to bite back an insult or smartass quip, so he merely nodded and moved into the elevator, turning to punch at the button for the ground floor lobby and then fold his arms across his wide chest.  Willy saw the subtle message not to intrude but to wait for the next elevator, and he smirked slightly and simply watched the elevator door slide shut again.

 

Sam sighed and let himself slump back against the faux wood interior of the elevator car.  One of these days, he wasn’t going to be able to hold himself back, and he and Willy would face off and resolve the long-standing question of just who was the strongest and most lethal sweeper.

 

But that was for one of these days.  Right now he had other things to worry about, such as whether or not he’d be able to get a decent amount of sleep.  Maybe he should think of investing in a bottle of Sominex (tm), just in case.

 

oOoOo

 

Charles Delgado had not lived to the ripe old age of forty by being careless.

 

The corner of Pine and 8th was a Centre warehouse, well maintained and with a heavy lock on the front door.  He’d observed it for the better part of the later afternoon.  It was an active warehouse filled with crates and cartons and boxes either bound for or en route from the Centre proper.  More appropriately to the circumstances, however, it was located in one of the lesser developed areas of town; several strips of light industrial businesses sat on the opposite side of the street, but the land on either side of the warehouse itself was empty and barren and forgotten-looking except for a shed at the very back end of the northernmost property.

 

He twisted in his driver’s seat, his hand dropping to his hip and the small-caliber handgun in the holster there, as a soft knock sounded on the glass of the window beside him, and then he growled and rolled the window down.  “Shit, Dave!  You know better than to sneak up on me like that!”

 

Dave Langer merely shrugged.  “Jerry’s in my car,” he stated, jerking his nose across the street at the slightly worn-looking Dodge station wagon parked at the opposite curb.  “It’s eight o’clock, you know.  Shouldn't…”

 

“He’ll be here,” Delgado stated with certainty.  He watched as a black, late-model sedan of the sort driven by Centre officials pulled around a far corner and headed in their direction.  “Go get Jerry.  Here’s our man.”

 

Langer was a good man, Delgado reminded himself as he watched the black sedan pull sedately to a halt directly in front of the warehouse.  They had been in the service together, assigned to the same operations many times and pulling each other’s asses out of the fire more often than either of them could count.  Langer was a master electrician, he was demolitions.  Jerry – Jerry Fishbain, another fellow Special Ops graduate – was computers.  Together the three of them had quietly pulled some of the most outrageous crimes on the eastern seaboard since their dishonorable discharge three years earlier.  Who would have thought the little arms dealer to have been Navy NCIS?  Just how someone as otherwise innocuous as Les Vickering would have found out about them, much less offer him and a team of his choosing a sizeable fortune to consider working for him, was anybody’s guess.

 

It certainly was enough to make him curious.

 

Without paying a bit of attention to the other men slowly assembling on the street from the two aging cars, Vickering walked up to the warehouse door and punched at the security box before inserting a key into the deadbolt.  He swung the door open, turned to look around – an open invitation to the others to come join him inside – and then vanished into the dark interior, leaving the door just ajar enough that he could be followed.

 

The others let Delgado take the lead; it was his party in the first place, after all.  Delgado waited until they were on either side of him before pulling the heavy metal door open and peering inside.  At the far end of a poorly lit and cavernous warehouse, a light shown brightly in a small office, and a quick exchanged glance among the three men had them spreading out to walk the length of the huge room cautiously.

 

“Time’s wasting, gentlemen,” came a loud voice from the office end of the building.  “There’s no trap here, no surveillance.  If you want this gig, get your asses down here so I can explain what’s needed.  If you want to play spy-versus-spy, go waste someone else’s time.”

 

“You’ve got to admit,” Delgado responded, keeping to the center line of the warehouse while his men scouted down either wall in line with him, “that we don’t usually get calls like yours from accountants.”

 

“Shows just how much you know about me,” the loud voice scoffed.  “Get down here, willya?  There’s nobody here, for God’s sake!”

 

“All clear,” Langer told him sotto voce, and Fishbain gave him the all-clear wave too.

 

Delgado jerked his nose in a “forward” gesture and strode purposefully toward the well-lit office.  Inside, he could see Vickering with his butt braced against a desk overloaded with paperwork, his arms across his chest and his face a study in restrained impatience.  The three men entered the warehouse and spread out in front of the man at careful distances from each other, a tactic that provided as much mutual protection and yet the safety of distance as physically possible in such a confined space.

 

“OK,” he stated, tipping his head slightly up and to the side, “we’re here.  Talk.”

 

“How many of you have been to Montana?” Vickering asked abruptly.

 

The three exchanged puzzled looks.  “What the hell does that have to do with anything?” he asked sarcastically.

 

Vickering frowned.  “There’s a national park up near the Montana-Canadian border by the name of Glacier.  In the middle of that park is a small installation, owned by the Centre…”

 

“The government let a corporation build a private facility on public land?” Langer asked with his slow Texan drawl.  “How’d that one get through Congress?”

 

“The point is that this installation is your target, gentlemen.”

 

Fishbain shook his head.  “You already work for the Centre, asshole.  You don’t need us to get you in…”

 

Vickering almost laughed out loud.  “I don’t want _in_ , asshole.  I want it _gone_ , and the prizes it holds transported to a place of MY choosing.”

 

"Going freelance, eh?"  Langer's succinct question came out before Delgado could ask much the same thing.

 

"Something like that," Vickering replied with a shrug.  "None of your business _what_ I'm up to, though, is it?"

 

Delgado’s eyes narrowed.  Something about this deal smelled fishy.  “Just what the hell is in this place anyway, that you would want us to destroy the place to get to?”

 

“Children,” Vickering announced with very little inflection.  “Three of them, as a matter of fact.  Those three I want; anybody else there is disposable as collateral damage.”

 

“Children?”  Delgado’s jaw had dropped. 

 

“This facility houses several remarkable children ranging in ages from fifteen to five years of age.  The three I want you to bring to me are the oldest of the ten: the fifteen year old, the fourteen year old and the twelve year old.  When you leave Montana, I want the rest of them, and the facility itself, a pile of ashes in the middle of a forest.”  Vickering’s voice had dropped to a deadly whisper.  “I was told that you three were quite possibly the most talented team that money would buy, and that provided the money was sufficient, you’d take the job.”  His arms dropped to merely clasped hands in front of him. “Was I misinformed?”

 

The three turned to look at each other with Langer and Fishbain obviously leaving the leadership role to Delgado.  Five million dollars – split three ways – was a very big enticement.  God knew that Delgado, with his love of the ponies of Atlantic City and the loan sharks that swam around them, could use the money to keep his kneecaps intact.  Delgado knew that Langer had had his eye on some property on the California coast for a long time, and Fishbain had long ago expressed an interest in setting up his own technology firm somewhere.

 

Killing kids wasn't a favorite activity, but they'd done it often enough for it not to be a huge impediment.   Somewhere in the shared looks, the mutual decision became apparent.  Delgado turned to Vickering.  “How soon you want this done?”

 

“How soon can you do it?” the accountant retorted.

 

“Depends,” Langer drawled and shrugged.  “We’ll need complete blueprints of the facility, including inside knowledge of where these kids will be located at any given hour of the day, _and_ a topographical map of the area.  Any information about security arrangements, computer access, telephone… we’ll need to know as much about that place as possible before we can even set a timetable.”

 

Vickering had crossed his arms over his chest again.  “I’ll get you what you need.”

 

“I don’t get it, man,” Fishbain shook his head, his face a study in disbelief.  “Don’t you work _for_ the Centre?”

 

The accountant’s smile was chilling.  “Only on paper, my friends.”  He turned to Delgado.  “I’ll be in touch when I have everything your friend here has asked for.  Is there anything else you’ll need before you can start?”

 

“A down-payment,”  Delgado stated and then watched the man’s hands shift to clasped hands in front of him again, “as well as enough working capital to buy supplies and make other necessary arrangements for the duration of the job.”

 

“How much?”

 

Delgado thought quickly.  “Five hundred large should cover the expenses, so I want two and a half million in cash in small, unmarked bills only when I come to pick up the information from you next time.  Half a mill of that is that expenses money I spoke of, and it's non-refundable.  Upon delivery of your cargo, I’ll expect the other three million, again, in cash.”

 

“Do you have any idea how bulky two million in small bills is?” Vickering gaped at him.

 

Delgado smiled, contented to see the cocky accountant thrown even slightly off-balance.  “You just leave the logistics of dealing with that to us and get us the cash and the info.  We’ll get your kids for you.”

 

“For that price, you’d damned well better,” Vickering threatened.

 

“By the way…”

 

“What?”  The accountant’s patience was beginning to wear thin.

 

“Boys, girls, what?”

 

“Hmm?”

 

“The kids you want; are they boys, girls, what?”

 

Vickering nodded, finally understanding.  “Boys,” he answered.  “All of them are boys.”

 

oOoOo

 

Horace Evanston watched the security panel as each of the living space doors was closed in sequence and then locked.  This was his job: to make sure that the hidden treasure of the Centre stayed safely hidden and safely contained.  But the job had never given him much peace of mind to go with the financial security it offered.  Keeping children under lock and key paid extremely well but was a test of his faith in the Centre.

 

After all, it was the Centre who had given him the grant that had allowed him to finish his university training, earning him a Master’s degree in child psychology with a minor in Education.  It was the Centre that had hired him directly out of college, two weeks after he’d gotten married, and moved him into the Montana wilderness and this thoroughly modern facility.  It was the Centre that kept giving him regular week-long vacations to whatever spot in the world he wished to travel and enough spending money while on vacation to be able to afford whatever he desired.  The Centre had even helped pay for his father’s lengthy stay in the convalescent home after a debilitating stroke and given him more than ample time when the old man had died to settle the estate. 

 

The Centre had been good to him, and it was hard to harbor secret doubts about its agenda here in Montana.  But even the philanthropic largess it had showered upon him and his branch of the Evanston family wasn’t enough to make him completely blind to the reality of his job.  These boys had done nothing, nothing but exist.

 

It was eerie the way the ten boys around whom this entire facility revolved looked as if they were identical twins separated only by approximately one year's time.  Each and every one of them – from the four year old to the fifteen year old – had dark brown hair, huge and expressive dark brown eyes and a smirking smile that could make a person either want to chuckle or smack them.  Each and every one of them was wicked-smart too, each of them being trained to excel in one specific area of expertise. 

 

He’d watched the other day while the fifteen year old, called Cancer in all the official documents, had stood in front of a white board, dry-ink pen in hand, and lectured his trainer on the finer points of physics that pertained to the structural integrity of whatever they were discussing at the time.  The way the equations and diagrams had spilled out of that hasty hand across that white metal surface had been almost frightening.

 

The fourteen year old, known as Leo, was now deeply involved in language acquisition.  For the time being, he was being taught to exist purely in a Russian-language environment in order to handle the terms of a project _he_ would be dealing with shortly.  Evanston had watched that child bounce easily from French to Spanish and Portuguese, only to turn around and spout fluent German and Italian only moments later.  Already the program was preparing to move forward into Japanese in little over a week, with Mandarin Chinese in the planning stages for three months hence.

 

The twelve year old was currently being drilled in logic, as well as inductive and deductive reasoning within controlled situations, each required in order to predict psychological and emotional outcomes with accuracy and speed.  The eleven year old had recently been introduced to organic chemistry, and the ten year old to robotics.  The nine year old had been brought up not only learning to read but to study the various different ways in which the written word could be encrypted.  The eight year old…

 

Evanston shook his head to banish such thoughts.  He was paid extremely well to keep, educate and direct the minds of these budding geniuses for the Centre, to keep them safe from contamination from the outside world, to keep them from discovery, and to keep them from understanding the very unique nature of their existence.  The latter was the easy part; even Evanston himself didn’t entirely understand the unique nature of their existence; he merely swallowed the directives and assurances of the Tower and tried to do as he was told in the most beneficial ways possible.

 

It was hard, however, to banish the image of the four year old presenting his current nanny with a hand-made card just that day, a card that demonstrated an already advanced understanding of the principles of art and design.  The boy – barely more than a toddler – had been crushed when the trainer had simply crumpled the card, tossed it in the wastebasket, and pointed the boy back to the mathematics equations on the sides of the building blocks. 

 

No!  Evanston couldn’t waste the slightest compassion on these children.  They weren’t real people, after all, but clones, he'd been told.  Science projects.  It was their mere existence that was the treasure of the Centre, evidence of a process that had been perfected and utilized to create intelligent life on demand.  They were nothing but the property of the Centre and always would be.

 

He turned and handed his scan card to the sweeper standing patiently outside the observation booth, waiting to take his shift during the nighttime hours.  Evanston would be glad to get away from this high-tech gulag for children.  His wife and he lived in one of the small villages that existed within the boundaries of the wilderness that predated the establishment of Glacier as a national park.  Sandi, whom he had met at the university while she’d been earning her elementary teaching credential, now ran a small day-care center for park employees.  She didn’t know the nature of his job; she probably wouldn’t approve of it either, if she were to find out about it. 

 

Evanston walked through the control room that doubled as his office and grabbed up his coat.  Outside, he could see the light from the setting sun turning the granite peaks nearby a warm pinkish-orange, with the sky above tending toward a light lavender color with wisps of cloud marring its perfection.  He took a deep breath of some of the freshest, cleanest air in the entire continental US and reminded himself to be thankful he wasn’t stuck in some dead-end job in a rat’s nest of a metropolis somewhere, turned into more of a number than an individual.

 

The Centre had saved him from that, and he couldn’t allow himself to remember anything else.

 

~oOoOo

 

William Raines sat in his office in the Centre Tower, an office that was dark except for the light from the lamp on his desk that shone down upon the latest balance sheet from Accounting.  The skeletal man had studied, glared, and run his finger down ever column of numbers several times now, trying to discern just where there would be enough leeway to make the money stretch for a little while longer.

 

The truth was, there _wasn’t_ enough money anymore.  Discretionary and private accounts were long since liquidated, and the income hadn’t matched the expenses for years now.  There was barely enough money to make the latest round of payroll; and if the trend didn’t begin to change, bankruptcy loomed in the very near future.  Of course, the largest drain on the Centre’s resources was Duplicity, but that situation was about to change.  It was time to take the project out of the closet and put it to use bringing in profit for the Centre again, and the fact was that Raines didn’t dare _not_ bring it into full operation any longer.

 

Raines reached for the telephone and dialed, then waited for an answer.

 

“I want to speak to Mr. Olabi,” he wheezed, checking the crystal clock on his desk and doing the math to make sure he was calling during African business hours.

 

“Mr. Olabi is in meeting until this afternoon,” the musically accented voice on the other end of the line announced briskly.  “May I take a message?”

 

“Tell him that the Centre is ready to go back into full operation, and he's invited to begin to send clients to Delaware at his earliest convenience.”

 

There was a pause on the other end of the line.  “ _Full_ operation?” came a deep and distrusting voice.

 

Raines smiled.  He’d been around the block enough times with the Triumvirate to know that when key members of the consortium were in a meeting, another possible lesser candidate for any vacancy would monitor all incoming calls.  If he couldn’t speak to one of the three men who ran the Triumvirate with an iron hand, speaking to a second in command was the next best thing.

 

“To whom am I speaking?” he demanded back, then pulled in a noisy gasp of oxygen.

 

“Solo Indala,” the deep voice replied with a touch of indignation.  “And you did not answer my question.”

 

“Yes, I said _full_ operation,” Raines wheezed back at last.  “We are once more in the position to offer the same kind of services we did when the Pretender Project was underway.”

 

“Your record of late regarding promises made and not kept has been disturbing, Mr. Raines,” Indala commented coldly.  “How can the Triumvirate be sure that you are in the position to deliver on your promises this time?”

 

“Give me a chance to prove myself.” Raines hated wheedling, but the number of clients standing in line to present their enigmatic problems to a Pretender capable of untangling them and finding answers had dwindled to practically nothing.  He _needed_ the Triumvirate’s confidence in the Centre to rekindle client interest, and business.  “Surely there is a problem of the sort we used to handle for you that would do as a test case.”

 

Again there was a pause on the end of the line.  “Very well.  I will confer with the Council and get back to you by the end of the workday here.  But I warn you…” and the deep voice deepened threateningly, “…do not toy with us.  Frankly, even I am privy to the fact that our Council has been advised on a regular basis to call in our loans to you now.  If you wish to continue being able to do business…”

 

“You won’t regret it, I swear.”  Raines struggled not to wheeze again as he pulled in another lungful of oxygen.  “We only now are ready to move into full operation on this project.  If we had moved sooner, we would have jeopardized the results and made years of research and development of the project a huge waste.”

 

“Fax us the project details, and I’ll present that as well as your proposal to the Council,” Indala demanded coolly.  “And we shall see what we shall see.”

 

Raines’ hands were shaking by the time he put the telephone down again.  He was so close to pulling the Centre out of the hole left by Jarod’s escape and then disruption of operations!  Seventeen years of planning and a paranoid attention to security were about to pay off in a huge way!  He wouldn’t have just one Pretender working SIMs and earning the Centre money, in the long run, he’d have _ten_ of them – each with a highly specialized training in a specific area of inquiry.  Only the oldest had been cross-trained in all of the sciences, much as Jarod had, in order to handle things while the others matured. 

 

Even if they couldn’t have Jarod back, his legacy would continue to profit the Centre well into the next century and beyond. 

 

Raines rose slowly to his feet and pulled the prospectus file on Duplicity from its spot to the side of his blotter and walked over to the fax machine.  He’d expected to be asked for the information, and frankly knew better than to expect cooperation from the Triumvirate without at least partially exposing his hand.  The information would whet appetites without giving away _too_ much.

 

All he needed was one chance to prove that he could deliver as promised – just one – and the Centre was saved. 

 


	4. Interesting Developments

Chapter 4 – Interesting Developments

 

Sydney gave Miss Parker a smile as she let him through her front door, and then gave an extra-wide smile to the boy who leapt to his feet.  “Sydney!” Evan exclaimed and darted over to the old psychiatrist for his welcoming hug after Sydney had put his sack of groceries on the end table near the door.  “Did you bring it?  You promised…”

 

Sydney extended his car keys to the lad.  “In the front seat.  Be sure to lock up the car when you’ve got it out.”

 

Miss Parker shook her head as her little brother scampered out the front door before it closed.  “You spoil him, Sydney,” she chided gently, even as she took his coat from him.

 

“He deserves to be spoiled, Parker,” Sydney chided back unrepentantly, “just as you did at his age.”

 

“My father would have disagreed with you,” Miss Parker reminded him, even now unable to distance herself from calling Charles Parker her sire although she knew better.

 

“Yes, well, your father and I disagreed about many things, child-rearing being only one of them.”  Sydney retrieved his groceries and followed Miss Parker through her house and into the kitchen.  “It’s good to see that you’re no more dedicated to his style of parental austerity than your mother was.”

 

“Yes, but a microscope, Sydney?  He’s only…”

 

“Old enough to be curious, Parker,” the psychiatrist replied without any signs of defensiveness.  “Evan is an intelligent child, and even you have found it prudent to hire extra tutors to keep him from getting bored in his public school classroom.  This microscope will only increase his ability to explore his world…”

 

“I suppose you intend to teach him how to use it?” she inquired, already knowing the answer.  Sydney took great pleasure in sharing of his vast store of knowledge with Evan every chance he got, and even _she_ had begun to marvel at the tremendous amount of information the old man had assimilated over the years.  No wonder he’d remained in charge of Jarod all those years: Sydney was no less a genius than his more celebrated former student.  What had saved him from Jarod’s fate, no doubt, was the fact that his genius was kept carefully understated and most definitely under-appreciated by the Centre hierarchy.  No wonder Jarod had been such a successful Pretender.  He’d been trained by one of the most successful Pretenders alive: the one the Centre never knew they had.

 

“I also ordered some pre-prepared slides for him to practice on,” Sydney admitted, removing the wine from the paper sleeve and opening the drawer where she kept her corkscrew, “and a notebook in which to record his observations and drawings.”

 

“God, you’d think he was a freshman biology student, rather than a ten year old boy,” she commented brusquely.  Evan had been nattering on all weekend about how Sydney was going to get him a _real_ microscope and teach him how to use it.  His enthusiasm for the gift had made the idea of something other than what a normal boy would want seem less odious.

 

“He has the makings of a fine scientist, Parker, or doing exceedingly well in whatever endeavor he eventually puts his mind to as a career.  His interests and curiosity should be encouraged, no matter where they lead him, and decent, professional technique taught to him right from the start.”  Sydney finished emptying his grocery sack and sniffed the air appreciatively.  “Pot roast?”

 

“I haven’t made it for a while,” she defended her choice with a smile, “and I knew that both you and Evan tend to make pigs of yourselves when I do…”

 

“We do not…” Sydney began, only for his sentence to grind to a halt as Evan danced into the kitchen bearing the large box that Miss Parker now knew had been purchased for him online and shipped from Germany.  The car keys he had borrowed were dangling precariously from a crooked forefinger held out from the rest, which Sydney retrieved and pocketed.  “Did you remember to lock the car?”

 

“Yes, sir,” Evan replied, dropping the keys into Sydney’s waiting hand carefully without unbalancing his burden.  “Can I open it now – _please_?”  He turned to his sister.  “ _Please_ , Sissy?”

 

“Oh…”  Miss Parker couldn’t refuse the imploring expression on her brother’s face.  “For a few minutes – but you have to clear the table for supper in…” she glanced up at the clock, “…a half hour.”

 

“C’mon, Sydney!” Evan cried happily and deposited the box on the kitchen table with a thud – shoving the salt and pepper shakers and the napkin holder nearly on the floor in his excitement.  “I want to see…”

 

“This is a delicate scientific instrument, Evan,” the older man warned the boy even as he pulled the flaps of the box open, exposing the sheltering Styrofoam within.  “You don’t want to be dropping this or handling it roughly in any way.”  Miss Parker watched with no small amount of her own interest as he inserted stronger, longer fingers into the thin space between box and Styrofoam and exposed the polished wooden box within, as well as several smaller boxes nested in their own places nearby.  “And you’ll need to be extra careful with these – they’re glass and will break easily…”

 

She turned back to preparing the potatoes for boiling and mashing, letting the sounds of a happy child and equally happy adult wash over her.  This was the closest she had managed to come to feeling like she had a family to belong to in a very long time: since the death of her mother all those many years ago, as a matter of fact.  Evan was growing up to be a boisterous but fairly polite and well-behaved child with amazingly few scars from his first lonely years in the Centre sublevels, and his progress gave her a feeling of accomplishment, knowing that she had been instrumental, if not key, to that.  She and Sydney, that is.

 

She hadn’t intended to let Sydney, whom she’d known for nearly her entire life, become such a large part of her private world.  There was a small part of her that would never entirely forgive him for keeping his word to her mother not to tell her that the suicide she’d thought she’d witnessed was but an act of desperate escape.  But then had come the death of Charles Parker over a storm-tossed nighttime Atlantic Ocean, the revelation of William Raines as probably being her sire in fact, not to mention the disappearance of her half-brother Ethan into the woodwork with Jarod over a year earlier.  In all, these events had rocked her world and stripped her of everything she’d ever believed in. 

 

Then she’d discovered Evan and what had become of the infant she’d helped bring into the world.  At last she thought she’d found someone worth expending energy on, but Evan had turned out to be a much bigger and more challenging handful than she’d imagined.  Raised in virtual isolation in the bowels of the Centre for the first few years of his life, the boy was completely unsocialized: loud, rude, and had a tendency to throw wild and violent temper tantrums when crossed. Unwilling to simply give up on him, she’d turned in desperation to the only person she knew she could count on to provide quality advice, and Sydney had come through for her as she’d never dreamed he would.

 

She had long since figured out that he had started to think of Evan as the grandchild he would never get from Nicholas.  Sydney had never been able to develop anything but a distant relationship with a son from whom he’d been separated before the boy’s birth.  Nicholas had taken a long time to come to terms with the abrupt shift in his parentage, and never seemed to want to spend a great deal of time with his real father.  He’d even held onto the name under which he’d been raised as a subtle hint to that fact.  Although there had been a time when Sydney had gone to great lengths to protect Nicholas from Lyle’s manipulation and agendas, Nicholas had never come to understand or sympathize with his father at all.  Sydney had informed her at the time, under coercion when his plummeting mood betrayed his very private emotions - that he’d received a letter from Michelle, Nicholas’ mother, informing him of Nicholas’ already-accomplished marriage to a young woman he’d met in Quebec.  A month later, she’d seen his disappointment grow even deeper when a letter from Nicholas himself established that neither he nor his new wife had any intention to have children. 

 

Not a month later, however, she’d turned to him for help with Evan.

 

Being invited to be of open assistance in the raising of a child had made Sydney positively bloom in a paternal sense.  He did spoil the boy, but it was a form of benign spoiling with an underlying current of discipline and ethical integrity as an example of behaviors approved of and practiced consistently by the adults around him.  And, over time and despite her past issues with him, she’d grown fond of the old man herself when he’d started to turn a little of that paternal attention to her too.  Once more – in what was fast becoming a habitual gesture – her fingers toyed with the stunning diamond and platinum lavaliere necklace he’d given her.  She still marveled that he would have considered gifting her with something that had been his mother’s, as if with the gift he’d adopted her into his family. 

 

Their work had once kept them in near-constant contact; but with the hunt for Jarod being at a total standstill, their other tasks kept the two of them working on separate projects and only rarely conferring.  That made the weekend time together with Evan all the more special to the both of them, for on weekends they could set aside Centre attitudes and agendas in order to just be ordinary people with a shared bond in the child they were raising together as best they could.

 

“Need help?” Sydney spoke suddenly from just behind her shoulder.

 

“Evan finished already?” she asked, and then glanced behind her to find the table at which they were going to eat cleared and Evan nowhere in sight.  She looked up at the clock and discovered that the time she’d specified had passed during her musings, and the potatoes were already on the stove and boiling furiously.  “Where is he?”

 

“I convinced him to set up on the coffee table instead of in here.  I’d imagine he’s still in there, practicing not getting a real good look at his own eye in the reflection from the eyepiece.”  Sydney didn’t wait for an invitation, but reached over her shoulder for an overhead cupboard door so he could take down the plates they’d need for the meal. 

 

She sighed and turned off the burner under the potatoes after she tested them and found them cooked.  “It must have been a long week; I didn’t’ even realize how time had flown already.”

 

“They’re all long weeks, Parker,” he commented wryly.  “You know that.”

 

“Any luck with going through Jarod’s stuff?” she asked in passing, moving conveniently out of the way so that he could get to the eating silverware drawer while she drained the potatoes.

 

“Not a thing,” he replied as he laid out three places at the table.  “I’ve looked through that room so many times in the past few years, and nothing leaps out at me now as indicating a larger pattern of behavior than has occurred to me beforehand.  Everything is just like a collection of junk: essentially meaningless in itself except that it points out the way in which Jarod has investigated his world and taken a hand at improving it where he could.”

 

“Wonderful,” Miss Parker grumbled.  “Well, that’s not going to help find him in the time allowed…”

 

“Parker,” Sydney straightened and looked at her, “you know as well as I do that it was only a matter of time before Jarod disappeared for good.  He’d always had the ability to put himself out of the Centre’s reach, he’d just never chosen to do it before.  We’re not going to find him – not in a year, not in ten years – unless he WANTS to be found.”

 

Storm-grey eyes in which a reluctant agreement hovered unexpressed caught and held the warm but apologetic chestnut gaze of the old psychiatrist.  “Then we’re going to need to look into which vaccinations we’ll need prior to our trip to Africa, won’t we.”  It wasn’t a question.

 

Sydney shrugged in a uniquely European manner.  “A year is a long time,” he offered.  “A lot can happen.  Don’t borrow trouble, Parker.  We’ll just do the best we can in the meantime, and pray that something intervenes between now and then that renders the African threat moot.”

 

Miss Parker turned away to dump the boiled potatoes into a serving bowl.  “From your lips to God’s ears, Freud.”

 

“Sissy!  Look what I did!” Evan trotted into the kitchen with the notebook extended.  “Sydney!  Did I do it right?”

 

The two adults gazed down into the notebook and saw the very recognizable shapes of an amoeba and then exchanged knowing glances.  Evan was a _very_ quick learner, just as Sydney had said.   Perhaps there had been a reason for his early servitude in the depths of the Centre, although neither of them really wanted to ponder the implications. 

 

“Nice!” Miss Parker smiled down at him.  “What do you think, Sydney?”

 

“Verrrry good, Evan!” Sydney purred at the boy, shaking his head to clear the cobwebs and then clapping the boy heartily on the shoulder.  “Go turn the light off on the scope and wash up now, though.  We’re just about ready to eat.”

 

oOoOo

 

Shinse Olabi looked up from his copy of the project prospectus that had been faxed from the Centre, his surprise at its contents evident.  “I didn’t think our Mr. Raines had it in him.”

 

Ugo N’deka rubbed beneath his nose thoughtfully as he gazed at the elder member of the Council of Three from which the Triumvirate had taken its name.  “This is an audacious plan, but one that shows more promise than almost anything else from the Centre of late.”

 

Olabi glanced over at the third member of the Council, a middle-aged woman whose admittance to the Council had come seven years after the murder of her husband, who had presided over the Council with intimidation and uncanny savvy.  Her eyes were narrowed, and it seemed she had yet to finish reading.  “Lula,” he called gently, “your thoughts?”

 

A graceful and carefully manicured forefinger stabbed into the air as she slowly flipped backwards through the pages of the prospectus, stopping at the balance sheet.  “Have you looked – and I mean _really_ looked – at the cost over-runs on this project?  Ten individuals, eight of whom aren’t even ready for use, housed in an isolated facility at a monstrous cost per year.  Where has the Centre been pulling the funds to keep this not only progressing on schedule, but hidden all this time?”

 

N’deka shrugged.  “It doesn’t matter.  What _does_ matter is whether or not we wish to allow ourselves to provide the test that validates the expense over the years, or whether we just go ahead, call in our loans and watch the Centre fold in a month.”

 

“I thought we’d already discussed this,” Olabi frowned.  “We were going to give the Centre six weeks more to prove that they could begin to function in the black again.”

 

“That’s my point entirely,” Lula Mutumbo glared in turn at both men at the council table with her.  “It’s going to take more than six weeks to prove the profit-making potential of this scheme.”  The forefinger stabbed at the papers that now lay on the table in front of her.  “You two know where my vote is.  We’ve wasted enough time and capitol on the Centre.  I say it’s time to recoup our losses and look elsewhere for investment potential in the United States.” 

 

N’deka looked to Olabi, obviously ceding the next comments to him as nominal President of the Council.  The older man took in a deep and heavy breath.  “And you already know where my vote is as well.  We have had a long and, until recently, very profitable relationship with past administrations of the Centre.  This latest prospectus proves that they haven’t entirely lost their edge when it comes to using the resources they have at hand to once more become a literal money-making machine with plenty of power and influence world-wide.  I vote we take Mr. Raines’ offer and give him the opportunity to prove this Duplicity to be bigger and better than the Pretender Project ever thought of being.”  Olabi gazed evenly at N’deka.  “That leaves you with the deciding vote, Ugo.”

 

“I know.”  N’deka stated wryly.  “I’d expected as much.”

 

“And…” Lula urged, “what do you say?”

 

“I can appreciate your concerns about the seemingly bottomless hole into which we’ve been pouring our money, Lula; and had this not crossed our desks, I’d be in agreement with you.  I _have_ been tending to want to cut our losses of late, and there have been whispers among some of our contacts in other similar organizations as to the real state of  financial instability of the Centre.  These whispers have recommended we get out now: that a quick divestiture and call-in of debts would be in our long-term best interests.  But…”  He lifted the prospectus.  “…This is the kind of inspiration we used to admire from the Centre – the inspired use of genius to forge an entire new industry.  Jarod was one individual – what Mr. Raines has here is an entire cadre, each highly trained and capable of decades of service.  The profit from Jarod’s work was spectacular.  Can you imagine the levels of profit to be reached when there are _ten_ Jarods fully functional?”  He looked over at Lula apologetically.  “I’m sorry.  I must vote with Shinse to test this Duplicity’s capabilities before calling for more drastic action.”

 

Lula rose quickly.  “I too have had my contacts whispering at me, Ugo, and they have been more than suggesting that the Centre is on its last legs.  Frankly, from some of the information I’ve received, it is surprising that they still have the doors open.  There is very literally no cash with which to pay bills in any of the Centre coffers.”

 

“But if this works,” Olabi interrupted her gently, “then that situation will quickly resolve itself.”

 

“If, if, if,” Lula scoffed with a disgusted wave of her hand.  “My husband didn’t build this consortium into one of the largest and most powerful global financial empires by betting on “if’s.””

 

“He also didn’t build a global financial empire by playing it safe,” Olabi chided bitterly.  “Your conservatism is to be admired, Lula, but to date, it hasn’t profited the consortium in the least.”

 

“It hasn’t lost us hundreds of millions of dollars US trying to prop up a failing concern either,” she retorted.  “That’s it!  I wash my hands of this decision, and I’ll take my concerns about any further losses to the consortium members themselves if the trend we’ve been seeing from the Centre doesn’t very quickly do an about-face.”  She strode to the door, only whirling just as the muscular guard reached to open the door for her.  “I have in mind a _much_ more lucrative investment property; and when you gentlemen finally come to your senses, we can discuss it.”

 

Neither man spoke a word until the door had shut behind her.  Then:  “She has the ear of a good percentage of the consortium members, you know.” N’deka commented cautiously.

 

“But she’s been nothing but negativity since taking over Adama’s seat,” Olabi reminded his colleague.  “I see the potential for problems in her attitude.  Have Siskele put a tap on her phone lines.  I want to know exactly who she’s talking to and what she’s discussing.”

 

N’deka gaped.  “Spying on a fellow Council member?”

 

“We’re protecting the Triumvirate from betrayal from within,” Olabi stated dryly.  “When all is said and done, our duty and loyalty should be to the consortium at large, not any one member of the Council.  Call Siskele.”

 

N’deka nodded.  He didn’t like it, this spying on one of their own; but then, these were unpredictable times.  He’d call their Chief of Security the moment he got back to his own office.

 

oOoOo

 

Mr. Raines stared up into the face of his personal sweeper with a combination of shock and disgust.  “You’re sure about this?”

 

Willy shrugged.  He pulled several silver discs from the breast pocket of his sports jacket and let them fall on top of the document that the skeletal Chairman had tossed down on the desk.  “Here’s the proof.”

 

Watery blue eyes looked almost desperately for signs of duplicity but could find none.  Willy had been loyal to him for well over a decade – seeing him through one trial or crisis after another – and Raines knew that if Willy felt the information important enough or explosive enough to interrupt the end of a quiet weekend at the lakeside cottage, it probably was.  And sure enough, the information he’d been handed had been explosive.

 

Lyle, it seemed, was playing a dangerous game of double double-cross: selling information to rival crime syndicates and then writing lucrative contracts with both sides to supply them with arms and logistical strategy when the threat of violence between the two groups became inevitable.  What was worse, however, was that Lyle was pocketing the profit from this venture – and a sizeable hunk of change it was – rather than doing the right thing and replenishing the General Fund of the Centre.

 

Raines could understand the need to make use of the information pool that had made the Centre a global power for decades.  It was that same ocean of intelligence and information and secrets which had held so many of the Centre’s creditors at bay lately.  He himself had flat-out sold intelligence and then written a supply contract just a few years ago, when the Centre’s access to liquid assets had dried up the first time.  The Centre had profited enough from that little escapade with one of two rival syndicates squaring off in Miami to stave off a hostile takeover attempt from Monsanto.  But for Lyle to sell information that didn’t belong to him in the first place and then pocket the profits for himself without even offering the Tower a cut of the proceeds to sweeten the deal and avoid hard feelings was to take greed and personal agendas a step too far.

 

“Is that all of it?” Raines wheezed noisily.  He’d have to change oxygen tanks very soon.  The oxygen was getting thin from the plastic nasal cannula.

 

“No – not hardly.”  Willy again reached into his pocket and this time pulled out a set of photographs.  “He’s up to his old tricks again too.”  The photos fell on top of the DSA discs, and Raines used a forefinger to push them apart enough to look at them.

 

Wherever the pictures had been taken, the restaurant was fairly upscale and most likely not an inexpensive place to eat.  Lyle sat at a far table alone, his attention obviously riveted on a lovely Asian woman who was also sitting at a table alone.  Raines looked up in disgust.  “I thought I told him that he’d have to curtail that kind of business just yesterday!”

 

“You know Lyle, sir,” Willy sneered.  “He went directly from your office to this restaurant in Baltimore, sir.  And I checked his itinerary.  He’s been at this same place every Friday for the past few weeks.”

 

“Who’s the woman?”

 

“Rosalyn Chu, a securities analyst for Merrill Lynch.”

 

“That’s all we need…”  Raines wheezed noisily, gasped in again in near-desperation and then pointed to the corner in which a stock of portable oxygen tanks were stored.  “Bring me a new tank.  This one’s empty,” he demanded soundlessly.

 

“What do you want me to do about him, sir?  Mr. Lyle, I mean,” Willy asked, immediately moving to do his master’s bidding.  The potential for being turned loose to take the Centre’s revenge on someone so high in authority betraying the Centre was just too much to walk away from.

 

“Nothing,” Raines’ word was virtually inaudible while Willy quickly and expertly switched the canisters in the little cart and set the gauge to dispense just the right amount of life-giving gas.  Raines breathed in noisily for several breaths which, for him, were deep gasps, and then opened those cold, blue eyes and stared at the sweeper.  “I have a better idea than merely using the regular means to demonstrate the foolishness of his behavior to him.”  He started to grin.  “What I have in mind will not only turn a profit for the Centre, but will even save the Africans money in the long run.  After all this time, I think even _they_ are getting tired of Lyle’s antics.”

 

“Yes, sir,” Willy agreed, then cocked a head curiously.  “What do you intend to do?”

 

“Where is Lyle now?” Raines demanded, not answering the question.

 

“Still in Baltimore, sir,” was the quick reply.

 

“Have our people stick to him like glue.  If he does anything, I want pictures.  If he farts, I want to know what he had to eat.”

 

“Yes, sir…”  Willy waited.  “But what DO you…”

 

“I’ll see you in the office tomorrow,” Raines announced dismissively.  “You can let yourself out?”

 

“Yes, sir.”  Willy was disappointed; sometimes the irascible Centre Chairman would take him into his confidence and let him enjoy the sense of anticipation when a response was forthcoming, but evidently Mr. Raines intended to keep his plans to himself for the time being.  “Good evening, sir.”

 

Raines watched the tall and hulking sweeper move silently and gracefully through the front of the spacious cottage and finally through the front door, and then sighed when he was once more alone.  Then he moved the photos aside, picked up the DSAs and stacked them carefully on top of the player he kept at the ready, and finally picked up the papers to read the particulars of the negotiations Lyle had led. 

 

It had been a touch of genius to contact both the Tartini family and the Vostov syndicate of the Russian mob.  Those two had been involved in a turf war over control of the better part of the New York waterfront business for more than three years.  Until only very recently, that turf war had only had occasional skirmishes; but in the last three months, nearly eighteen bodies had been discovered with indications of their murders being gangland-related.  It still wasn’t clear if one side or the other was winning yet, but from the looks of Lyle’s secret bank account in the Bahamas, both syndicates had been very generous in their reimbursements for whatever Lyle had seen fit to sell them.  The man was now independently wealthy on a scale never seen before with any of the Centre elite.

 

Damn it!

 

Raines rose to his feet awkwardly, grabbing the handle of the oxygen tank cart and dragging it behind him to the liquor cabinet.  Angrier than he’d been for a while, he poured himself a liberal dose of bourbon and downed it in one blazing gulp.

 

What a disappointment Lyle was turning out to be.  Trained from the very beginning in what it meant to belong to and rule the Centre, Lyle had been the best prospect for future Chairman since Charles Parker himself rose to that position.  And yet while Lyle had everything it took to manage the Centre, keeping the philosophies alive that had made the Centre what it was today, he’d been as much of a miserable failure at the simple task of recapturing an escaped Centre property as his twin had been.    _NOW_ he’d had to screw it up even more by getting greedy on a personal level!  Why couldn’t he have waited with this stunt for six, eight months maybe? 

 

Now plans to remedy the situation had to be put into motion early or Parker would be quick to smell a rat when Lyle suffered his “setback.”

 

He dragged his oxygen back to the desk and sat down heavily, reaching for his Rolodex file as he did.  It didn’t take long for him to find the card he wanted, and he dialed the number with sure fingers.

 

“We have a problem,” he announced to the voice that answered the call on the other end of the line without preamble.  “We’re going to need to move up the release date of your project to possibly the end of the week.”  When answering sputtering ensued, he merely shook his head.  “I really don’t care to hear about it.  It looks like our timetable has been moved five months forward for us, and you’re going to have to speed things up on your end to compensate.”

 

“That’s impossible!” Mr. Cox exploded into his ear.  “I haven’t had enough time…”

 

Raines’ eyes glittered coldly.  “Impossible or not, I want her ready to move as soon as possible.  I don’t want Jarod breathing down our necks after Miss Parker and Sydney are removed from the picture, do you?”

 

“Of course not!”

 

“Then get the girl ready.  I’m going to need to put her into play within the next week or so.”  Raines wheezed in noisily, his upset at having his careful planning unbalanced making his heart beat faster.

 

Cox was obviously livid.  “I can’t be sure the programming will be complete by then…  And the consequences of the technique being incomplete and failing at just the wrong moment could be disastrous.”

 

“I don’t care how you do it,” Raines yelled and then pulled in a gasping breath.  “We found her for you after Jarod’s father took her away from Lyle, didn’t we?  We caught her again and gave her to you a month ago, when you said your process was ready, didn’t we?  Now you will do as you’re instructed, or I’ll find someone else who can do the job better.  Is that clear?”

 

Raines slammed the telephone receiver down and settled back against the comfortable leather-covered cushions of his chair.  Idiots and imbeciles!  He was surrounded by idiots and imbeciles, all of them, with the biggest of the lot proving to be his heir apparent.

 

Well, that would change soon enough…

 

oOoOo

 

It was late, and Jerry O’Brien knew that he’d tripped over something very important;  important enough that his canned spaghetti, warmed over in the microwave and dumped unceremoniously into a cereal bowl, had once more grown cold.  It didn’t matter.  He’d already lost his appetite to his alarm and excitement. 

 

He’d spent the last hour staring at the computer screen in disbelief, his eyes flicking quickly back and forth between two windowed spreadsheet pages.  On the left was Miss Parker’s personal spreadsheet detailing expenses, complete with receipt numbers, dates and explanations.  On the right was the spreadsheet that was the “official” expense account tally for the Pretender Project of which Miss Parker was one nominal head. 

 

Normally, considering that there were two project co-heads, Jerry had been expecting to find most of Miss Parker’s entries from her expense sheet co-mingled with identifiably those of Mr. Lyle’s.  After all, this project had two separate teams with two separate set of expenses; one should expect to be able to use the personal expense sheet to pick and choose those entries from the unified account that belonged to the one.  But that had not been the case here.

 

The “official” balance sheet showed none of Miss Parker’s listed expenses – not a single one of them – nor did it use any of her documented receipt numbers to supposedly justify the expense account item.  What was more, every entry on the “official” balance sheet was outlandishly overpriced.   No wonder Mr. Raines, if this was what he was working from, had been determined to assign an auditor to the project overall; and no wonder both Mr. Lyle and Miss Parker had been livid.  If either of them could be believed, then someone far enough up in authority as to have access to upper-level security had used their access to falsify the balance sheet, with the excess reimbursement money handed over prior to the “discovery” of this fraud going… where?

 

O’Brien frowned, hit the button to print out his findings and then closed out the two spreadsheets.  He’d done what he could from home.  In the morning he would present his evidence of file tampering to Mr. Raines and ask for help from the computer experts in uncovering who had had full access to the file.  Then he’d call Vickering and ask for a routing for the reimbursement deposits.  If either Mr. Lyle’s or Miss Parker’s accounts had been credited, it meant the private expense sheet of that individual was bogus and the culprit for the cost overruns had been discovered.  But if neither account had been credited…

 

Money in this amount didn’t simply vanish.  If the reimbursement had been made, the money had had to have gone _some_ where.

 

He took an absentminded bite of his spaghetti and then grimaced.  Cold spaghetti!  Ugh!

 

oOoOo

 

“Well, how did it go?”

 

Lula Mutumbo relaxed back into the comfortable chair at her desk, cradling her private cell phone against her ear.  “It went as you predicted, Mr. McKenna,” she sighed tiredly.  “The minute Ugo N’deka got a whiff of this Duplicity, he was right back into the Centre’s back pocket.”

 

“I told you, he’s been a fan of the Centre since Charles Parker arranged your husband’s murder in order to keep N’deka from being ousted from his Council chair,” Jim McKenna reminded her frankly.  “He pretends to be a moderate, but he has benefited far too much at the Centre’s hand to see through the smoke and mirrors.”

 

“So what do we do now?  If the Centre is as unstable as you say, my consortium stands to lose a good deal of its investment; which will mean we will be unable to proceed into a full partnership with the Eire Foundation…”

 

“Nonsense,” McKenna brushed aside her warning with quiet confidence.  “You are authorized to be a signatory in contracts, are you not?”

 

“Yes, but…”

 

“But nothing,” he interrupted her, this time brusquely.  “My Foundation is the best new property to have come your way in a good ten years, and you know it.  I suggest that you fly over here to Philadelphia, and let’s see how much of a working relationship we can put together without having to consult with your anachronistic cohorts.  Let them cling to a sinking ship, while you are launching a new and seaworthy vessel.”

 

“You’re very sure of yourself,” Lula commented in wary admiration.

 

“Yes, ma’am, I am.”  McKenna stated bluntly.  “My organization is not now, nor has it ever been, financially over-extended.  What we would be constructing would be a silent partnership, with the Triumvirate supplying new capital that will assist me in enlarging the scope of our profitable ventures.”

 

“You have to admit that if Raines can pull off this Duplicity, the Centre will be in a powerful position to reclaim its financial stability in relatively short order,” Lula warned him.

 

“Don’t worry about Duplicity,” McKenna replied, his voice once more brusque.  “I have it on good authority that the project is doomed to failure in the very near future.  All of that money will have been wasted, and the Centre will not survive long after that.”

 

“That seems rather presumptuous…”

 

“I’m merely telling you the facts as I know them,” McKenna countered.  “Now, may I make reservations in your name at the Philadelphia Hilton, say for a week’s stay in about three days?”

 

“I will need a cover story to satisfy my fellow Council members, should they grow curious…”

 

“Tell them the truth,” McKenna suggested, a wicked note of mischief very clear in his voice.  “Tell them you are investigating new investment possibilities and that you will be reporting on your findings on your return.  They can hardly fault you when you aren’t lying to them.”

 

Lula’s face broke into a pleased smile.  “You are indeed a clever man, Mr. McKenna.”

 

“Thank you, Mrs. Mutumbo.  Please have your assistant call as soon as travel arrangements have been made, and I will be more than happy to take care of lodging reservations on this end in preparation for your visit.”

 

The turbaned head nodded slowly.  “Very well,” Lula agreed finally.  “You shall hear from my people by the end of the day tomorrow.”

 

“I look forward to the beginning of a very lucrative business relationship for the both of us,” McKenna told her with smooth persuasion.  “Until we speak again, then.”

 

Lula replaced her cell phone in her pocket and looked around at the walls of her office.  To the best of her ability, she’d recreated the precise décor that had been in place in her husband Bolo “Big” Mutumbo’s office at the time of his demise.  It was a vivid reminder to those who worked her that she was continuing a legacy that had lapsed.  Adama Okele had been a fool who had bartered the power of the Triumvirate against the wiles of the Centre and lost.  _SHE_ would not make the same mistake.  The Centre was a cancer that was eating the Triumvirate.  Bolo had seen that and had been taking steps to neutralize Charles Parker and his slimey associates, including Ugo N’deka, when a sniper had snuffed out his life prematurely.

 

She’d seen enough evidence that Parker and his associates – especially a particularly evil and diabolical second in command by the name of William Raines – had been behind the assassination.  Jim McKenna had been very careful in providing her with that evidence,  giving her not only forensics reports but eye witness testimony in the affair.  She had no doubts as to the guilt of the Centre and so had no qualms in doing her part to try to hasten the demise of such an ill-begotten organization.

 

And yet Raines – the hither-to unknown brother of Charles Parker – had managed to squeak out of every little trap she’d laid for the Centre.  He’d avoided assassination attempts and charges of stock manipulation, letting middle management figures take the fall for concepts and directives that had originated in his office.

 

But no more.

 

At least, not if McKenna could deliver on his assurance that Duplicity was the Achilles’ Heel that would uproot the Centre at long last. 

 

She reached for her office phone and summoned her personal assistant.  “Book passage to Philadelphia for myself and sufficient staff to handle a several weeks’ stay,” she directed autocratically, “and then inform Mr. McKenna at the Eire foundation of the arrangements.”

 

“Yes, ma’am,” the assistant agreed immediately.

 

oOoOo

 

“Jarod, I’ve called you three times for lunch now…”

Jarod shook himself free of the meditative state that was required to achieve the clarity of mind necessary to do a SIM properly.  “I’m sorry, Em…  I was…”

 

Em put her hands on her hips and moved to stand directly in front of her brother as he sat on the edge of his bed amid photographs, diagrams, and pages of hasty scribbling.  “I thought you already had this one worked out…”

 

Jarod didn’t look her in the face as he pushed his lanky frame from the bed and stretched.  He’d been hard at it since four that morning; he did need the break.  “I thought I had too until I went there on Friday.”

 

Em’s dark eyes flashed with worry.  “You’re not going to be putting yourself into danger, are you?”

 

Jarod’s equally dark chocolate yes flashed with mild irritation.  “Every one of these Pretends has its share of risk, Em.  This one is no exception.”

 

“Mom and Dad are worried…”

 

“Mom and Dad always worry, and so do you.  It doesn’t change who I am or what I do, so let’s just drop it, shall we?”  Jarod frowned.  “Look, I’m sorry I didn’t hear you calling me.  Can we just eat now?”  He moved past his sister and walked to the door of the bedroom.  “What’s for lunch?”

 

“Jarod, whatever it is that you’re planning to do is giving you fits.  Do you know that you’ve had nightmares for the last two nights in a row?” Em followed him, a note of frustration in her voice.

 

“Of course I know I’ve had nightmares.  I’m the one who lived through them,” Jarod replied after a quick intake of breath and grounding technique keeping his own building frustration from catching fire too quickly.

 

“I don’t mean to pry…”

 

“Then don’t,” Jarod snapped a little more crossly than he’d intended.  “Look, Em, if putting up with me and the way I get when I’m involved in one of these Pretends is going to be too hard on you, I can always find another place…”

 

“Stop it, Jarod!  Can’t you see?  You’ve become almost…”  Em struggled for the words to express what she was seeing.  “I remember when you first came to the farm, how you had such a hard time learning to just be yourself.  You used to get angry when we’d ask questions about the Centre, and now you’re getting angry in the same way when I even think of asking you anything about this escapade of yours…”

 

Jarod stopped, threw his head back and sighed loudly before turning to face her.  “Then maybe you should stop asking me about my ‘escapade,’ whatcha think?”  He scowled at her as he waited for her to move ahead of him.  “Is there lunch, or were you just looking for an excuse to interrupt me?”

 

“Jarod!”  Em was aghast.

 

Jarod sighed.  The last thing he wanted to do at this ticklish stage of the Pretend was to have to work at balancing his home environment too.  This was the place where he _had_ to feel able to relax and concentrate.  “I’m sorry, Em.  Some variables were added to the situation on Friday, and I need to think things completely through again.  I don’t mean to bite your head off, but I can’t explain…”  He sighed again.  “And frankly, you don’t want to know.”

 

“Yes, I do…” Em answered tersely, and then moved past him and into the kitchen.  “But I guess I don’t _need_ to know.”

 

“Em…” Jarod followed her, now beginning to feel guilty.

 

“No,” she sniffed, moving a casserole from the stovetop to the hot pad on the table.  “Maybe you’re right, and I don’t want to know anything about this Eire Foundation…”

 

Jarod stared.  He hadn’t told her that much.  How had she found out…  “What makes you think…”

 

“Jarod,” she replied in exasperation.  “I can read.  Some of what you were sitting on had that name written all over.  You told me on Thursday that you were going for an interview at the Foundation.  It stands to reason that some of this attitude I’m seeing suddenly must have something to do with…”

 

“Please…”  Jarod was feeling the same kind of pressure and antagonism toward his sister as had driven him from the farm.  “I really need to just have you drop it, Em.  I can’t concentrate – I can’t do my _job_ – if I have to feel like I have to fight you off all the time too.”

 

Em glared at him for a while, and then slipped into her spot at the table.  “You’re right,” she said suddenly.  “I’ll drop it.  Sit down and eat while it’s hot, Jarod.  You haven’t eaten since last night.”

 

Jarod eyed his sister warily as he pulled out his chair and folded his tall frame into it.  She was giving up altogether too easily.  None of the rest of his family had backed down from this particular fight before.  Something was up.

 

Em refused to look into her brother’s eye as she used the big spoon to ladle a generous portion of casserole onto his plate and handed it to him.  The Eire Foundation, she repeated to herself, determined to touch base with a couple of her sources at the newspaper in the morning to see if there was any dirt to be scrabbled through in that direction.

 

Something had Jarod wound tighter than a drum and getting touchier by the hour…  She intended to figure out just what that something was.

 

oOoOo

 

Lyle scowled as the lights in the Chu apartment remained lit.  His time in Baltimore for this latest hunt was getting short, and he didn’t really want to postpone it for another week. 

 

There she was, silhouetted against the draperies of her living room window; and then, there _he_ was!  The tall man who had moved in on her Friday night was still in attendance and had been a non-stop companion for her for the entire weekend.  The two shadows seemed to dance around each other for a moment and then suddenly merged.

 

Lyle growled and threw the Centre sedan into drive, squealing the tires as he peeled away from the curb.  Damn it!  How could he have been so wrong?

 

It wasn’t fair!  He had Raines on his ass telling him what he could and couldn’t do anymore, he had a god-damned bean-counter on his ass looking in his pockets and his bank accounts, he had the buyer for Smith and Wesson on his ass for the money owed him for the latest shipment of handguns, handguns that had already been delivered to the Vostov Syndicate for which he was STILL awaiting payment himself.  And now he had a damned lover-boy intruding on what should have been a singular moment of ecstasy.

 

All right, dammit, so the Chu bitch was safe for the time being.  He could wait for her social life to take a nosedive again; obviously this guy was in and out of her life with long periods of inactivity between spates of non-stop companionship.  Rosalyn Chu wasn’t the only one out there who could interest him – surely he could find someone…

 

The clock on the dashboard told him he had three hours before he absolutely HAD to be on the road heading back to Blue Cove and servitude.  Three hours…

 

A cold smile spread very slowly across his visage, and he pulled the car to a halt at the next stop sign and studied where he was.  There was a place – down near the waterfront – where the ladies could be pretty and generally were less than picky about choosing their companion for an evening.  He turned on the signal and steered the car around the corner to the right, thinking through the directions to the sector of town so as to find the most direct route.

 

By the time he turned the corner and saw the many scantily-clad women plying their ancient trade at intervals along the street, he’d made peace with this as his best option for the weekend’s activity.  And no sooner had he turned the corner than he saw her: her face heavily mascara’ed and powdered, but with classic Chinese features shining plainly through.  He steered the car to the opposite side of the street over to in front of where she was standing and put the window down.

 

“Looking for a good time, Mister?” she asked in what could have been a Boston accent.

 

“Looking for you,” Lyle answered, his grey-blue eyes twinkling.  “How much?”

 

“Twenty gets you a quickie…”

 

“How much for an entire night?” Lyle demanded, allowing his need to show in order to spice the deal and make himself more credible as a customer.

 

The dark eyes sparkled in anticipation.  “Eighty,” was the quick answer.

 

“Get in.”  Lyle put the window up and leaned over to open the passenger door.

 

The girl hurried around the front of the car and into the passenger seat with a satisfied flounce.  “You have good taste,” she announced saucily.

 

“You have no idea,” Lyle replied cryptically, making sure the locks on the passenger door were firmly locked and putting the car in gear again.

 

Maybe the evening wouldn’t be an entire loss after all.

 

oOoOo

 

Nathaniel Cox was a patient man, most of the time.

 

He had to be.  Raised in a mortuary, he’d long since learned the lesson regarding the fleeting nature of life; and then as a physician, learned that the best cures were the ones that kept disease from starting in the first place.  His specialty – for the first decade of his practice, at any rate – had been in the field of fertility and obstetrics.  There, the beginnings of his lessons on patience had unfolded.  Life, the creation of it specifically, didn’t happen according to schedules.

 

That same patience applied to his hobby of taxidermy, something that was as much a product of his fascination with certain elements of his father’s profession as anything else.   One couldn’t rush the process of mounting the skin of an animal and making seem alive again.  And, in the end, that same patience had served him _very_ well during his latest tenure as researcher with the Centre.  The process of creating potent mixtures of pharmaceuticals and psychological treatments to that would result in a predictable alteration of personality and malleability of purpose had required more patience than he’d ever needed before.

 

Unfortunately, it seemed that his master in the Tower had none of that patience in ready supply. 

 

Cox roused himself from his comfortable couch in his office on SL-23 and flipped on a lamp so that he could see his way to his desk.  There, he touched another small light fixture that could cast only the necessary illumination on the working surface, enough to be able to read the lastest observations submitted by his assistant on the progress of his current subject.

 

She was still in the sleep-deprivation-hallucinogen phase of the project.  It wasn’t easy turning a carefree, big-hearted person into a cold-blooded assassin.  There was at least another day or so in this phase before the final audio-visual brainwashing could begin.

 

A week between where she was now and where she needed to be for deployment was to push the limits of the process.  There would be no time to test and make sure the adjustments were complete and irreversible, no time to be sure that once she _was_ released, she’d not only do as programmed but not stop until she had succeeded.

 

Still, it _was_ Jarod that she was to be set after, and he _did_ make a habit of getting in contact with her on a regular basis.  Using Zoë as the means to remove Jarod as an irritant and liability to Centre security had been a stroke of genius.

 

Cox flipped a switch and the monitor screen on the wall blinked into life, showing the young woman in question tossing and turning and unable to find any peace to rest as the noise and blinking lights penetrated her concentration.  He smiled suddenly, and grabbed a smaller legal pad to jot down his idea of using time distortion to hasten the process along at a rate that might – just _might_ – give him the leeway he needed to make sure she would succeed at the task set for her.

 

Mr. Raines, unlike Mr. Parker, had little time for failure;and Cox knew that this would be his biggest test.  He didn’t dare fail, and therefore, didn’t dare release her until he _knew_ she wouldn’t either.

 

oOoOo

 

“This is it?”  Delgado opened the briefcase on the hood of the car and glanced quickly through the contents.  It looked to be complete: there were the reduced copies of blueprints, schedules of staff and inmates, topological maps of the Montana wilderness area, and plenty of other information below that.  He sighed and closed the briefcase once more with a snap – then turned back to Vickering.  “What about the money?”

 

Now Vickering beckoned him to the back of his sedan and pointed into the trunk.  Within were packed bag after bag of currency, marked by with Bank of America on the canvas.  The trunk was full of the bags.  “Its all here: two million in cash with the largest bills hundreds.”

 

Delgado unzipped one of the bags at random and thumbed through a stack of hundred dollar bills making sure there was no newsprint or blank paper padding the bundle and cheating him of his pay.  “That’s not small denomination,” Delgado scowled.  “We were expecting fifties and twenties…”

 

“It’s the best you can do without needing an armored truck to carry it all,” Vickering countered testily.  “Take it – and the briefcase – or leave it.  I can always find someone else…”

 

“No…”  Delgado could feel his heart beating just that much faster at the thought of all that money just sitting there, waiting for him to transfer it to the back end of his van.  “Help me move it to my van.”

 

Vickering leaned back against the back bumper of the sedan and folded his arms across his chest.  “I brought you the money,” he announced firmly.  “You move it.”

 

Delgado scowled.  This accountant certainly could put on some stuck up airs.  He stalked back to the driver’s door of the van and started the vehicle up to move the back end closer to the trunk of the sedan.  Contented that he could just snatch and toss now, he climbed down, opened the back doors of the van, and then spent the next few minutes discovering the real weight of cash bags stuffed to capacity with currency. 

 

“When can your team move?” Vickering asked finally, once the trunk was once more free from its cargo.

 

“I’ll be in touch,” Delgado huffed at him, out of breath from the unexpected exertion.

 

“My people want this problem handled within the week,” Vickering persisted.  “Do you see any problem in meeting that goal?”

 

“I don’t know,” Delgado told him honestly.  “Until the three of us have a chance to look over what you’ve given us, anything I say would be only speculation.  However, if things are fairly straight-forward, you’ll have your pile of ashes and your three kids within the week.”

 

“You have my cell number…”

 

“You’ll hear from us within twenty-four hours with a preliminary time schedule.”  Delgado didn’t even pause to shake the man’s hand again.  “And you’ll receive regular update calls to let you know of our progress.”

 

“Good.  For the money I just gave you, I expected at least as much.”

 

Delgado’s eyes narrowed as he turned just before climbing back into his van.  “Just make sure that you have the rest of our money for when the job’s done.”

 

Vickering glowered back.  “You just do what you’ve been paid to do, and let me worry about making sure the other half of your payment is ready for you when the time comes.”

 

Delgado climbed back into the van and turned the key in the ignition.  Something about the way Vickering was behaving was making the warning claxons sound off in the back of his mind.  This was a high-profile job; and while the money seemed to be good, there were too many things that could go wrong both before and after.  Not for the first time did he wonder why a Centre-employed accountant was paying him millions to destroy a Centre facility and steal away three individual children. 

 

He threw the van in gear and sped away from the darkened corner.  He wasn’t being paid to understand, however, and he knew it.  He was being paid to do a job.

 

And now was the time when he and his team were to deliver on their promises.

 


	5. Tripwire

“Is she in?”

The dark eyes of the secretary came up immediately and gazed evenly into Jerry O’Brien’s face. “Is she expecting you?”

O’Brien shook his head. “No, but I have some information for her that I think she’d be interested in…”

The secretary held up a slender and well-manicured finger. “Let me check, then. Your name?”

“O’Brien,” he responded. “Gerald O’Brien.”

The secretary lifted the handset and pressed a single button. “There’s a Mr. O’Brien out here, asking to see you…” she relayed after a moment’s pause, and her eyes flickered as she listened to the response from the other end of the line. Finally, nodding, she replaced the receiver in the cradle.

“Miss Parker is scheduled to meet with members of her security team in ten minutes,” the secretary announced evenly. “She can only give you a few moments…”

“I should only need a few moments,” O’Brien sighed in relief. “Thank you.”

The moment he had pushed the door open enough to step through, Miss Parker’s voice came at him. “I really don’t have time for a consultation, Mr. O’Brien…”

“I’m just keeping you up to date on my investigation, Miss Parker,” he replied, moving across the office and sitting down in one of the chairs that faced her desk. “After speaking to both you and Mr. Lyle, and seeing your dismay at the official expense report for your project, I did a little digging from home over the weekend.”

Miss Parker’s eyebrow soared up her forehead. “You did, did you?” she asked with a slightly caustic hint to her voice.

O’Brien chose to ignore the tone. “Yes, ma’am – and what I discovered was most unsettling. It turns out you’re right – and there seems to be nothing in common between the report you would have submitted from your spreadsheet and the expense report that Mr. Raines has been working from. Absolutely none of your receipts are even listed on the official report – and none of the receipt numbers from the official report are listed on your private report.”

Miss Parker folded her arms over her chest and sat back in her chair. “You’re not telling me anything that I don’t already know,” she snapped at him.

“I was wondering if you had the hard-copy receipts available…” he asked hopefully, “of the ones you filed originally OR the ones listed in the official report?”

She unfolded her arms and leaned forward to lift the phone receiver and push a button. “Darla, bring the file containing receipts for the last three months, will you?” she demanded after a slight pause. “And bring the file with the report I got last Friday – the one with the receipts.”

Less than a minute later, the dark-haired secretary was walking smartly through the office doors carrying two manila folder, which she quietly handed to her boss and then retreated from the room again. Miss Parker opened the folders in turn as if to check the contents, and then closed them both again and handed them across the desk.

“Here you are. You’ll see that my originals are all properly numbered according to scan numbers, and the yellow copy of the reimbursement application is affixed…” She scowled. “You’ll also notice that there’s a serious discrepancy between the signatures on the receipts I’m claiming and those in the official report.

O’Brien opened the folder and saw that at least he wouldn’t have to be re-arranging things so that they’d make more sense. Miss Parker knew how to keep her expenses properly. “Thank you, Miss Parker – these will be quite helpful…”

“Why not work from the scans in the mainframe?” she asked, her curiosity finally being piqued slightly.

“Because,” O’Brien closed the folder and inserted it in his thin, leather document case, “from what I can tell so far, the receipts you logged in the expense report you gave me have all been submitted and marked reimbursed – but I’m not sure who received the money. However, I’m beginning to suspect that there has been an on-going fraud, using your and Mr. Lyle’s offices as fronts to launder in-house money.”

Miss Parker’s brows once more soared – and this time she leaned across her desk, all sarcasm and taunting set aside. “Proof?”

“I’m going to see if I can speak to Mr. Lyle – get his hard-copy receipts as well – and then present my findings to Mr. Raines. After that, I’m going to talk to my former supervisor and see if there can’t be some way to track the reimbursements…”

O’Brien found himself caught in a very intelligent and very interested blue-grey gaze that seemed to measure him all the way down to his soul. “Is there any way that my staff can help expedite your investigation?”

O’Brien’s eyes began to twinkle. “You’re the head of SIS, aren’t you?” he asked suddenly.

Miss Parker was almost taken aback at the brashness of the question. “You know I am,” she replied archly.

“And you have high-level security clearance to access files in the mainframe, do you not?”

The blue-grey eyes narrowed slightly even as a knowing look floated across her features. “I do – and so does my computer consultant.”

O’Brien leaned forward in ill-disguised excitement. “It would be so much better if I could present clear and unassailable proof of file tampering, Miss Parker – with your private expense reports alongside to prove that your claims aren’t half as outrageous as the ones made in your names…”

Miss Parker put up a hand to halt his narrative and picked up her desk telephone again, this time dialing a three-digit extension. She waited until the other end of the line had been picked up and then announced without any preamble at all, “Get your ass up here, Shaggy. I have…” She listened to what obviously was a loud complaint. “I KNOW we had an appointment to meet in just five minutes. I want you up here NOW, though. I have an errand I want you to run for me…” The blue-grey touched O’Brien’s face. “…actually, for me and for our new bean-counter here.”

She listened, her face drawing into an expression of mild exasperation from whatever she was hearing. “I don’t care – actually, what I want you to do may end up having a direct bearing on that mainframe sweep you need to do…” She nodded. “Just get up here. I’ll let him explain what he wants to you – and I expect you to give him exactly what he asks for.”

She nodded brusquely and then hung up. “Is there anything else I can do for you, Mr. O’Brien?”

“No, ma’am!” Actually, she’d done more for him than he’d expected – or even thought possible.

There was a knock on her office door, and then a balding man stuck his head around the corner. “You sent for me, Miss Parker?”

“Yes, Broots.” She motioned him in. “This is Mr. O’Brien – and he’s looking into the mess that is our project finances. He has a few suspicions – I want you to help him look into the darker corners of the mainframe for answers…” Her face grew intense. “…if you get my drift… Just like you’re doing for Sam.”

“Sam?” The computer expert swallowed when a glance at the silent sweeper sitting off to the side got a glower from that quarter that told him to just play along, IF he knew what was good for him. Not willing to contradict his boss AND worry about getting her sweeper in his face too, he merely nodded quickly. “Yes, Miss Parker.” Watery blue eyes danced nervously over to O’Brien. “What about the security team meeting in five minutes?”

Miss Parker waved her hand imperiously. “It’s just been postponed until this afternoon. Move it!”

Broots sighed and then gestured to the accountant. “We can… we can work in my office… This way…”

“Thank you, Miss Parker,” O’Brien smiled at her in relief. It seemed that she responded much more positively to someone openly looking for the truth of the matter.

“Good day to you, Mr. O’Brien,” she nodded more graciously than she had at first. “And let me know what you find.”

“Don’t worry, Miss Parker,” he assured her, “you’ll be one of the first three people I tell.”

Miss Parker waited until Broots and O’Brien had left before turning to Sam, who had kept his habitual silence all through the interview. “Well?”

Sam shrugged. “He still didn’t tell you much of anything you didn’t already know, Miss Parker.”

“I know – but he did confirm what I’d told him earlier, and is going to look into it…”

The thought was disquieting, and Sam hoped his unease with the idea didn’t show. The copy of the official report, and the troublesome receipt signatures, was still in his briefcase. His friend in accounting had shown him how easy it would be to falsify such things and get them entered – IF there were a dual set of books being kept, that is. He hadn’t had a chance to talk to Broots yet – to see if there was a very quiet, secret way to get into the inner workings of the mainframe to see how and where such an entry might have been made – and now, it seemed, the investigation would be considerably less quiet, less subtle, that he’d wanted.

“Maybe I should coordinate my investigation into this one?” Sam looked up suddenly. If he could control the search, he might just keep this development from turning into the key that could get someone hurt.

“Perhaps.” Miss Parker nodded slowly. “I figured you’d have been talking to Broots sooner or later – might as well make it sooner then…” She frowned as the big man rose almost immediately. “Did you find anything Friday?”

Sam tried not to flinch. “No, ma’am, nothing of any real note other than the official processes that kick in when a receipt is submitted.” It was the truth – although not the whole truth. He’d discuss the rest of the truth with Broots – when he had a moment alone with the little geek. If nothing else, it was a security hole that could be plugged with hopefully just a few lines of coding – or something else just as innocuous and easily accomplished to someone with a knack for computers.

“I’ll expect a progress report this afternoon,” Miss Parker told him, her eyes narrowing slightly. It was hard to believe, but she could have sworn Sam had blanched slightly at her question. Something wasn’t right.

“Yes, ma’am.” Sam whirled and made a quick exit.

Miss Parker leaned back in her chair and sighed as she fingered her pendant thoughtfully. No, something definitely wasn’t right – with Sam. When he normally took charge of something, it was handled in an extremely efficient and prompt manner. So why was he hedging now?

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

“Here you are.” Jim McKenna opened an office door and waved his new employee in. “You have a fine view of center green from here,” he announced, moving to open the Venetian blinds and allow the late autumn sun entrance.

“This is more than I’d expected sir,” Jarod gaped. “I thought I was only hired to be a financial consultant.”

“Nonsense!” McKenna grinned at him. “Someone with your talent and resume deserves to have more authority and responsibility than just being one of the penny-pinchers that keep this place floating. I need someone to oversee expenditures – watching for project cost over-runs, that sort of thing. The Foundation is looking into expanding into new fields – and I won’t have the stability we enjoy now threatened by any of these new ventures at all.”

Jarod walked around to where his new chair was tucked neatly into the desk and pulled the chair out. On the desk were the tools of his “trade” – an adding machine as well as a flat panel monitor and keyboard/mouse arrangement behind what was obviously a dumb terminal for the Foundation mainframe. 

“In here,” McKenne pulled out the top right-hand drawer and pointed at the thick, three-ring notebook bound in royal blue carrying the Foundation’s logo, “you’ll find the employee handbook, as well as an insert giving you your security level and password to the computer system here. Any questions?”

“Yes.” Jarod put his briefcase in the chair and turned to his new employer. “Just how and where do you want me to start?”

McKenna chuckled. “Good man. I like you, Simmons…”

“Thank you, sir…”

“There are three projects that I want you to scrutinize closely for the time being – and those project names are on another insert in your binder there. There have been some questionable expenses from all three of these projects in the last three months – and I’d like you to chase down the legitimacy of those claims.”

“Yes, sir.” Jarod nodded. That was, after all, the job for which he had applied – the job that would get him the closest to finding out just what Bob Rogers had uncovered, and who stood to benefit most from Rogers’ demise. 

“Spend the morning familiarizing yourself with the computer system and the handbook – and then come to see me after your lunch. I’ll introduce you to the project heads whose work you’re going to be overseeing in the near future.”

“Yes, sir.”

McKenna put out his hand for Jarod to shake – a handshake that was firm and steady. “I’ll be talking to you later.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you sir.”

Jarod watched McKenna walk from his office and pull the door shut behind him – and then slid his briefcase from the chair so that he could sit down. He touched the button on the dumb terminal that connected to the mainframe and dug out the royal blue folder, his fingers quickly finding the loose insert that had his computer terminal number and security password printed on it. Then he smiled as the opening menu came up – the Foundation’s mainframe was built on the very same platform that the Centre’s had been. It was a platform that HE himself had designed so many years earlier as part of a SIM for the government – or at least, so he’d been told at the time; and it was a platform he was more than capable of circumventing without much trouble at all.

Had the Foundation stolen the coding, he wondered idly, or had they actually paid good money to buy the thing legally? Not that it mattered much…

A quick set of undocumented keystrokes activated the administrative consultant window – something he’d imbedded in the system from the very beginning to allow him to tweak and submit bug-fixes form anywhere while still at the Centre. It had also allowed him to hack his way easily into the very heart of the system ever since then. Even Mr. Broots, with all of his very considerable skill at the computer that the Centre so under-appreciated, didn’t know about this particular back door.

Jarod quickly scanned the coding of the opening screen, finding and noting the position of the keystroke logger for that particular terminal ID. Designed to keep track of an employee’s activities while working on the computer, it had not recorded the quick and secret keystrokes that functioned completely outside menu options and additional software – and Jarod smiled. That freedom from observation served his purpose quite nicely, since most of his in-depth investigation of files and information pertaining to Robert Rogers – his work as engineer and so on – could be just as easily managed on the administrative consultant screen.

Two quick keystrokes closed the admin window, leaving him staring at the opening menu again. Best do as Mr. McKenna suggested and familiarize himself with company policies, he decided, and pushed the keyboard back to make room for the binder. 

After all, this Pretend promised to be a fairly long-lived one.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

“You need to see this,” Willy announced without even asking permission to come into Mr. Raines’ office.

“Excuse me?” The wheeze at the end of the question did nothing to hide the near outrage at the interruption. Raines hadn’t even managed to get half-way through his first cup of coffee yet, much less read the activities report from the previous evening’s security teams.

“You need to see this,” Willy merely repeated and dropped yet another series of photographs on his superior’s desk.

Raines stared long and hard at his sweeper, and then glanced down at the pictures – only to start sputtering. “Not again!”

The photographs were graphic – and obviously taken with a night “scope” with a camera attached. The photos documented, from beginning to gruesome end, Lyle’s activities with a young Asian woman – from picking her up as if she’d been a prostitute selling her wares on the street, to escorting her into a hotel room, to carrying out a large garbage bag that he HADN’T carried in with him, to dumping the bag over an escarpment on a narrow and little-used road outside of Baltimore, to a nauseating peek at the contents of the bag, to a peek into the hotel room and the mess that the butchery had caused that had evidently yet to be either discovered or cleaned up.

“The same woman?” Raines asked, his face stony.

“Nope.” Willy shook his head. “Some bimbo he picked up in the Baltimore red-light district.”

“I take it the police are now involved?”

“Yes, sir. The sweepers watching the dump site said that the body was found early this morning.” Willy watched his boss’ face for an indication of his thinking – with only limited success. As expected, this had infuriated the old man.

Raines let his fingers push the photographs around with distaste. “And where is my so-called “son” now?”

“In his office, sir,” Willy replied with the neutral tone that hid his glee. “I don’t know that he slept very much last night – getting home around three in the morning – but he made it in to work on time.”

The skeletal Chairman sighed heavily. “It seems Mr. Lyle is becoming the kind of liability that the Centre simply cannot afford,” he wheezed softly, as much to himself as to Willy. Cold blue eyes snapped up to the dark face of the sweeper. “That will be all.”

“Do you want me to handle this?” Willy pressed very carefully, remembering his boss’ reticence at discussion Lyle only the day before.

“Not yet,” Raines gasped as he drew in more life-giving oxygen. “Your help will be needed – but later. Get in touch with the Baltimore office – see how much of this investigation can be sidetracked for a while.”

“Sir?”

The blue eyes snapped. “Until we’ve handled things from this end to the point that nothing will lead back to the Centre. That Will Be All!”

The frustration mounted a notch, but Willy didn’t show a bit of it as he simply nodded his compliance and headed toward the etched glass doors. Mr. Raines must be planning something big to keep him so completely out of the loop – and that wasn’t like him, Willy mused as he headed toward the elevator and the sweeper’s lounge two floors down. 

Ah well. He’d find out soon enough – that was certain. He’d been told his help would be required eventually – and he had enough to keep him busy with trying to direct the Baltimore team in dealing with the police there. As much as his curiosity was beginning to get the best of him – and as much as he’d dearly love to be a part of “handling” Lyle in one of the only ways that perverted weasel understood – he could wait.

For a while, anyway…

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

There was a knock on the office door, and then a greying head peered around the corner. “You sent for me?”

“Yes, come in Joshua,” Evanston waved in the psychiatrist, “and close the door.”

Joshua Kelly manipulated his crutches and pushed the door closed behind him, then moved in his awkward gait to the chair in front of the desk. Hugh Evanston’s office was the best in the entire Montana facility, with a picture window that overlooked a spectacular mountain scene beyond. “What’s this about? Cancer is just about ready…”

“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about,” Evanston interrupted his researcher with quiet firmness. “There has been a change in plans.”

The grey brows climbed the older man’s forehead toward the bushy crop of hair that dangled limply, never staying under control or out of the way. “A change in plans?”

“Yes.” Evanston pushed a copy of the documentation he’d received by fax just that morning across the desk at the disabled man. “New directives from the Tower. You’re to prepare Cancer for a full-scale test of his abilities – and be prepared to begin work on a real SIM starting tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow!” Kelly gaped.

“The time has come, it seems, for our little establishment to begin to earn its keep,” Evanston related, translating the terseness of the message that had accompanied the formal orders into more digestible terms. “A representative of a group that has been underwriting our endeavor will be on-site tomorrow with the details of a full-scale SIM to be handled by Cancer. You have a day to prepare your subject.”

Kelly was a good man, though, Evanston thought, very capable. He handled stress better than almost any other of the psychiatric staff at the facility. If pressure was to be applied, Joshua Kelly was the man who would be most likely to perform best. Even now, the project director could see the psychiatrist handling the news and assigning it the priority it needed to be dealt with efficiently and capably. “Are any of the others being given a similar test?”

“No,” Evanston shook his head. “Cancer is the only one deemed fully ready to begin to implement. I’m sure, as time passes, the rest of them will each begin to run SIMs for the Tower – but your interest should be with and stay with Cancer. Do whatever you feel necessary to prepare him.”

Kelly nodded thoughtfully. “Is there anything else?”

Evanston decided that the pressure he’d put on this facet of Duplicity was adequate – and not to share the veiled threats that would take greater shape if success was not quick and decisive. “No. I just thought you should hear this straight from me, rather than get it through an inter-office memo.”

Kelly’s hazel eyes narrowed slightly. He’d been employed by the Centre long enough to know that when a superior started to dissemble, things were not quite as rosy as they might otherwise appear. “Then I should get back to work,” he stated, working himself out of the chair until his frame was supported by the crutches attached to his forearms. He was just about to turn, but then faced Evanston again. “Any idea of the nature of the SIM we’ll be running?”

Evanston shook his head. “Not a clue. Whoever it is that’s coming will be providing all that information when he or she arrives.”

“Just who are they sending?”

Evanston just kept shaking his head. “Again, I’ve no clue, Joshua. But I understand they’re arriving in Helena this afternoon and then motoring in early in the morning.”

“You don’t suppose it would be the Chairman himself, do you?” Kelly’s eyes darkened. “Maybe he wants to see his pet project succeed personally?”

“Don’t worry about who’s coming. Go on back to your lab – get your subject ready for what he’s facing tomorrow.”

“What should I do about the engineering SIM he’s been running, though? I thought it was going to be important…”

Evanston sighed. Yes, Kelly was a good man – but there had evidently been a very good reason to ship him out of the Delaware facility to this relatively isolated locale. The man simply didn’t know when to put a cork in it. “Joshua! That will be all! Do whatever you need to in order to draw the current concern to a close – and maybe give Cancer some down time…” 

“Down time?” The psychiatrist was agape again. “He’s NEVER been allowed…”

“Look, just do what you need to.” Evanston was starting to get seriously peeved. “I have work to do too, to prepare for our visitors. You do your work, I’ll do mine – and neither of us can do a thing with you in my office.”

Kelly sighed too. Getting Mr. Raines out here to observe the job he’d done training Cancer to be far more compliant and resourceful than even the infamous Jarod would be a major coup – one that might see him rescued from this virtual exile and returned to the bosom of the Centre Psychogenics Department. It appeared, however, that such a rescue would have to wait, for a little while more, at least.

Evanston watched the psychiatrist wend his way back out of his office, shutting the door with deliberate calmness and precision. And so it begins, he mused as he picked up the type-written letter that had accompanied the new directive:

I expect the Triumvirate representative to be treated with the same level of respect as you would accord to me. S/he will be given full clearance to observe any or all other operating aspects of the facility, up to and including the work of any of the other subjects. You and your staff will be given two weeks to set up, run, and complete this simulation; and you will see to it personally that the project delivers on its promised schedule – or know that your future with the Centre will be under review, as will that of any staff involved in the failure. Failure is not an option, Dr. Evanston. 

So much of what was expected was out of his hands – and yet, everything that had been offered to any of the boys had resulted in answers well within the working parameters of the project. This would be just a more official simulation – but would JUST be another simulation. As Mr. Raines said, failure wasn’t an option – success was the only result this project had seen to date, and there was no reason to believe that the Triumvirate SIM would end any differently. He had known this day would come – and he was confident that there would be no problem delivering to this representative whatever results were desired within the two weeks given. 

The thoughts were comforting, but Evanston still felt the need to adjust the tightness of his shirt collar in contemplation of just what MIGHT be in store if his confidence was misplaced. That wasn’t a comforting thought at ALL.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Broots stared and then stared again. “Well, I’ll be damned…”

“What?” O’Brien scooted closer so as to see what was spread across the monitor screen, only to find the blue background filled with line after line of what seemed like gibberish. “What did you find?”

The expression on the balding man’s face was a curious mixture of disgust and admiration. “So THAT’S how it happened.”

“What?” O’Brien repeated, this time a little more forcefully, “how what happened?”

Broots’ finger stabbed at the bottom of the screen. “See that there? It’s just one line of coding – but it’s one damned insidious little device.” He glanced over at the accountant and then seemed to realize that deciphering computer code was HIS forte, not that of his companion for the morning. “It’s a redirect command, with an interesting little twist that it redirects every other terminal in the entire Centre BUT the one in Miss Parker’s office.”

“Redirects? You mean, tells the computer…”

“To look somewhere other than where the on-screen option would make a person THINK they were being sent.” Broots frowned. “And see? The filename being accessed during redirection is only one character off from the original – making the deception very hard to notice during access.”

“So you’re saying there are two files – not that Miss Parker’s has been hacked…”

“Oh, Miss Parker’s been hacked all right,” Broots snorted, his sense of outrage finally kicking in. “She’d continue to add to her own personal file, thinking that the rest of the mainframe would access it too when it came time to issue expense reports. What she didn’t’ know was that everybody else would be accessing a file that has nothing whatsoever to do with her or her real expenses.”

“Can we tell who created the file in the first place?” O’Brien asked curiously.

Broots did something arcane that made a smaller black window appear in the middle of his screen and then typed a command into it. Immediately a line of information blinked back at him. “Nope. All we can do is see the last time it was accessed.”

“Just time – not who?”

Broots blinked, thought for a moment and then typed again. “Maybe not necessarily who – but we can see WHERE it was accessed from.” He pointed. “Each terminal that accesses the mainframe has a distinct ID. And while the log won’t say whose password was used to unlock a terminal, it will tell us which ID was in use at any particular time of the day or night…”

O’Brien was quiet for a moment. “But…” he began finally, “…don’t each of us with a password have a terminal that we would ordinarily access the mainframe from? How many of us would change terminals over the course of a day?”

“Under normal conditions, you’d be onto something,” Broots nodded in agreement. “But you’re forgetting one thing…”

“What’s that?”

“This is the Centre,” Broots replied, as if those three words could explain the secrets of the universe itself. At O’Brien’s continued blank look, he added, “There is no such thing as “normal” here.”

The accountant blinked in surprise. “That’s a very jaded thing to say,” he commented with a slight frown of disapproval.

“How long have you been working here?” Broots asked in response.

Again O’Brien blinked. “Five years, why?”

Broots sniffed. The man was a virtual infant, innocent to almost everything that could and had gone on within these walls. “Just wait until you’ve been here a while longer. It takes time to figure things out – to get past the surface to something closer to the truth. Not that the truth lives here very often,” he added under his breath as he brought up the log for the day the second, “official” file had been last accessed. “OK. There’s the ID of the terminal used,” he pointed and then grabbed a pencil and scribbled the ID onto the first piece of paper he could lay his hand on. He put the pencil between his teeth and opened yet another black window in the middle of the last one. “Now we’ll fee where fiss ‘erminal is,” he somehow managed and waited for the mainframe to once more answer his command.

“Well?” O'Brien demanded, leaning in until Broots could barely read his monitor screen.

“Jiff a fec,” the technician said and gave his monitor a little tug to get it closer to where HE was, and then blinked, dropping the pencil from his mouth to the desk and then into his lap without noticing. “Accounting department – one of the pool machines,” he announced with a scowl. “Damn.”

“Why damn?”

“Pool machines are accessed normally by any number of individuals – they just kind of sit out where anybody can get to them. Someone could just wander into the accounting pool and sit down. You’ve been there,” Broots turned to his companion. “You know how easy it is to just sit down in an empty cubby and…”

“Yeah…” O'Brien rubbed under his nose in frustration and then sighed. “When was the last time it was accessed?”

“Last night,” Broots replied, flipping back a window to check the log. “Late last night – ten o’clock.”

O'Brien stared at him. “Last night? Sunday night?”

Broots stared back at him. “Now why would someone have been in the Accounting pool at ten-thirty on a Sunday night?”

“A better question would be WHO would be sitting in an Accounting pool cubby at ten-thirty on a Sunday night,” O'Brien returned crisply.

“This is something I can get Sam to look into,” Broots muttered to himself, and reached for the phone to dial an extension.

“Thanks, Mr. Broots,” O'Brien clapped the technician on the shoulder. “I’ll let you continue this end of the investigation – I have another avenue or two that I need to follow before I can present my findings to Miss Parker or Mr. Raines.”

“Don’t forget the security meeting this afternoon,” Broots reminded him, a hand over the mouthpiece of the receiver while waiting for Sam to answer his cell phone.

O'Brien pushed his chair away from the technician’s desk and moved quickly through the door and towards his own office. He clicked on the light and seated himself quickly at his own terminal. His password needed no thinking anymore, and then he was slipping through the mainframe – and the re-direct command Mr. Broots had pointed out – until he had that “official” expense file on his screen. Then, like Mr. Broots, he grabbed at a pencil and, pulling a white page from his printer, began noting down the transaction numbers for the latest reimbursements. It was interesting to note which amounts had been issued actual paper checks as compared to those where the money had just been funneled electronically from one virtual pocket at the Centre to another – finding that the larger the amount, the more likely a paper check had been issued.

Armed with what he knew was a solid lead, O'Brien bounded from his chair and made a mad dash for the elevator. He tapped his toe impatiently as he waited for the silver door to slide aside, and then pounded on the button for the sublevel he’d worked on for the past five years. He crossed his arms and again tapped his toe while waiting for the little metal box to take him up to SL-3, and squeezed past the sliding door when it didn’t open fast enough for him once it arrived.

“Is he in?” he demanded breathlessly of the young blonde who had just recently been given the job of Vickering’s secretary/assistant.

“Yeah, but…”

O'Brien didn’t wait to hear more – he strode to the door, knocked and pulled it open.

Vickering looked up at the interruption, his face in a scowl. “I’ll get back to you,” he stated into the telephone hurriedly and then hung up. “I thought you were working for Mr. Raines now,” he stated with a frown.

“I am, but…”

“What gives you the right to come barging in here…”

“Look!” O'Brien brought the paper and put it down in front of his former boss. “We’ve discovered that there is a second set of books being kept in the mainframe – and that this set of reimbursements has been issued against claims made in the fraudulent file. I need to see the scans of the cashed checks, and any electronic transaction numbers for simple ledger transfers.”

Les Vickering let his brows climb his forehead. “Two sets of books?”

“It sure looks as if someone is trying to defraud the Centre – and blame Miss Parker and Mr. Lyle for it…” O'Brien told him triumphantly. 

“Have you told Mr. Raines about any of this?” Vickering asked, even as he began to type into his terminal.

“Not yet,” O'Brien answered, his eyes once more glued to a computer monitor. “I will when I have something more solid to work with other than terminal IDs and…”

“Here,” Vickering shook his head. “It’s going to take me a while to dig up all the particulars you want – and print out the scans of the canceled checks. Why don’t you go back down to your new office – I’ll bring you what I find in an hour or so.”

“Great!” O'Brien clapped his former supervisor on the back. “I knew I could count on you for an assist on this.” His steps out of Vickering’s office had a spring that bespoke of a man confident of his immediate future.

Vickering pushed the paper with the half-illegible scribbles back and picked up the telephone again, dialing a three-digit extension. “We’ve REALLY got problems now,” he announced grimly.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

“Mr. Raines? Your call to Tommy Tanaka has come through…”

Raines didn’t even acknowledge his secretary’s efforts, but pushed the button for the other active line. “Mr. Tanaka. William Raines here…”

“Mr. Raines.” The voice on the other end of the line didn’t sound friendly in the least. “My name is Toshiro Aoki, and I will be translating for you and Tanaka-sama…” There was a spate of Japanese that sounded almost angry, and then Aoki took a deep breath. “Tanaka-sama says that you have… a great deal of… um… courage… to call us after the last time Yakuza had dealings with Centre.”

Raines flinched, although this was not an unexpected reaction. Lyle was the one that had botched the transfer of the woman who had seen “Sonny” Tanaka murder a man – a woman who had then given testimony that had resulted in Tanaka being convicted of first-degree murder with special circumstances. “Sonny” Tanaka had sat on death row until his execution one year ago – the American branch of the Tanaka Yakuza decimated by investigative work carried out by the FBI and the Treasury Department not long thereafter. The money that the Yakuza had paid the Centre for the woman’s delivery had been stolen by Jarod – leaving the Centre itself to have to pay back the millions out of emergency funding. Neither organization had profited – and both had lost greatly. 

“I would remind Mr. Tanaka that the Centre was also made a victim,” Raines wheezed nervously. “And while we made good on our financial obligation, I’ve decided that the time has come to give a more… complete… reimbursement for the pain and suffering.”

There was an exchange of quiet Japanese, some urgent, some calm and authoritative. “Tanaka-sama wants to know exactly what kind of reimbursement you’re speaking of,” Aoki stated finally in English.

“The Centre finds that it would be financially expedient to sell to the Yakuza the man responsible for all of the trouble in regards to Mr. Tanaka’s father’s situation,” Raines said as clearly as he could and then worked hard to not gasp in more oxygen noisily. “We are proposing a simple trade – Mr. Lyle for one million US.”

Again the exchange of Japanese commenced – and again there was a raised voice agitating for or against something behind them all. The discussion took longer than the last, but finally Aoki’s voice came back on the line. “One million US is a lot of money, Raines-san. How do we know that you will be able to deliver as promised this time, when last time…”

“This time, I will be handling the exchange personally,” Raines replied with a soft wheeze at the end of his statement. “There will be no computers, no electronics involved where a third party can infiltrate and disrupt our arrangements. The million will be in cash – and Mr. Lyle will be exchanged physically for the money. Any problems, and both of us can withdraw…” This time, the wheeze couldn’t be suppressed. “…no harm, no foul, nobody coming up short.”

The Japanese discussion that resulted that time was short. “Tanaka-sama will consider your offer, Raines-san. You will receive an answer within twenty-four hours.” With that, the line went dead in Raines’ hand.

The Chairman of the Centre put the receiver down with a snort of frustration. Still, they hadn’t turned him down flat – and a million US would go a long way to tiding the Centre over as far as payroll for key personnel until Duplicity began to prove itself. He leaned back in his chair and twisted as far as the rubber tubing from his oxygen tank would allow. 

Just a few days longer – he just had to hang on a few days longer, so that the Triumvirate could see the potential in Duplicity and come through with some desperately needed emergency loans.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

“Duplicate files, you say?” Sam frowned at the computer tech. Here he’d been thinking that a second set of books had been kept – and Broots had found them all on his own…

“Well, not EXACTLY duplicate files. It’s more a case of a shell game within the mainframe – with the bulk of the information access being given to the wrong file.” Broots used yet another envelope back to write two filenames. “See? One is PretPkrEx, the other is PrelPkrEx. Unless a person were being VERY careful, and knew what to look for…”

“They’d not think to check the exact filename.” Sam finished for him. “Very clever.” VERY clever. Whoever had done this was doing a damned good job of hiding their tracks.

“That’s for damned sure – especially considering the only terminals where the real file could be accessed are right in Miss Parker’s office.” Broots shook his head. “This is an impressive bit of hacking.”

“So we’re looking for someone with computer knowledge?” Sam frowned again. “That makes no sense. Why would a computer geek want to mess with Miss Parker’s expense reports?”

Broots shrugged. “All I know is that the last time this duplicate file was accessed, it was late on this past Sunday night – and it was accessed from one of the terminals in the Accounting pool.” He turned his blue eyes on the sweeper’s countenance. “I was thinking that maybe you would want to check into the DSA of that night’s surveillance camera in the Accounting pool – and find out just who it was that was looking into Miss Parker’s fake expenses after everybody else was in bed on a Sunday night…”

Sam nodded. “That sounds like a good place for me to start.” The DSA archival staff was comprised of highly specialized sweepers – making that part of the investigation ideal for him to pursue. “I’ll get right going…”

“I think Miss Parker wants us all to meet…” Broots dug through the loose papers that littered his desk and pulled out one. “Yeah. Miss Parker has set a meeting for four-thirty this afternoon. O'Brien will be there – you might as well let her know how your end of things is looking too.” He tossed down the paper and turned back to his monitor. “And in the meanwhile, I’m going to see if I can find any other suspicious coding…”

“Are you sure that’s necessary?” Sam frowned again. “Why don’t you let me see what comes of this lead – maybe this is just a bean-counter gone nutso with power or something…”

Broots looked at him as if he’d lost his mind. “Remember the bit about Miss Parker supposedly in charge of doing a complete overhaul of the security systems in the mainframe? File re-direction would be one of those problems that she’d be expected to deal with in regards to that.”

Sam shrugged and tried to look nonchalant. “Yeah, I suppose you’re right…”

“Besides, O'Brien seemed to think what we found was pretty serious – especially considering the size of some of the checks that ended up written. I think he was going to be seeing about tracking transactions – or something like that. If I find more redirections like this one…”

Sam felt that same chill wrap around his heart. “You’re right – I need to check the DSA archive. I’ll see you at four-thirty,” he said and hurried from the technician’s computer lab.

Broots frowned. Sam was acting very peculiarly, especially considering the serious nature of the problems that had already been uncovered so far. Then there was the statement Miss Parker had made about Sam supposedly bringing something to him already – something that evidently hadn’t happened yet.

Something wasn’t right. Sam wasn’t normally this slow on the uptake.

He shrugged and turned back to his computer screen. Now that he had some idea of the technique used, by golly he was going to see whether there were any other redirect commands nestled into the heart of the operating system – and note down whose information was being shanghaied and to what ends. His concerns about Sam could wait for another time.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

O'Brien sighed and looked at his wristwatch again. It was three thirty – an hour before he’d have to gather his evidence so far and be ready to make some kind of presentation to Miss Parker and the rest of her team – and he still didn’t have that one last piece of information that would make his presentation powerful.

Where was that man!

A quick stop in Behavioral Science had netted him a quick consultation with the resident handwriting expert. The man had quickly confirmed that the signatures on the receipts Miss Parker had received from Mr. Raines were NOT made by the same person who had signed the receipts she’d had her secretary pull from her own files. In fact, he’d pulled up a recent security report from the archives – a scanned copy that held a digital rendering of Miss Parker’s signature – and had that compared to the apparently fraudulent receipt signatures as well; and the expert had confirmed what the naked eye could easily see.

So now the only real lead from the mess he’d uncovered that stood a chance of leading the team toward the person or persons responsible for all of this lay in the endorsing signature on the hardcopy checks that had been issued as reimbursements. Hopefully that would confirm beyond a shadow of a doubt that the money had been diverted in much the way the electronic information had been sidetracked. The shell game that was the mess surrounding the Pretender Project balance sheet was incredibly complex – far more than he’d originally considered.

He’d spent the better part of the last hour doing a forensic examination on both Miss Parker’s and Mr. Lyle’s personal finances – and neither of their accounts of record had seen any sizeable activity in the amounts in question. Miss Parker’s accounts showed only the semi-monthly influx as the Centre deposited her paycheck electronically. And while there had been considerable amounts deposited to Mr. Lyle’s personal accounts of late, none of the amounts tallied with any combination of the reimbursement checks issued to his office either. 

He was about to reach for his telephone to contact Vickering again when a knock sounded on his doorway. “It’s open,” he called and glanced up to welcome Vickering with the report he needed. His face folded into confusion at the sight of a face he didn’t know. “Yes?”

“Mr. O'Brien?” the man asked in a soft, accented voice as he quietly closed the door behind himself.

“Yes?”

A moment later the door opened again, and the man walked from the now-darkened office, heading confidently for the elevator.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Langer waited until the car door had slammed and Delgado was safely inside, with his package stored in the back of the SUV, before turning the key in the ignition of the rental vehicle. “Did you get everything?” Fishbain asked his team leader impatiently.

“Amazing what having enough cash to pay the going rate can get you,” Delgado grinned at his team. “I’ve got enough C-4 in the trunk to level most of this town.”

“As long as it’s enough to level that structure,” Langer shrugged as he put the car into gear.

“If the blueprints tell the story, it’s more than enough, Dave. Don’t worry.”

“But I do worry,” Langer frowned. “We still haven’t figured out exactly how we’re going to get to those kids before we blow the place…”

“YOU may not, but I’ve had an idea or two,” Fishbain told them triumphantly. “I did a little web-surfing while you two were sleeping on the plane – courtesy of a password our “friend” left for us in all those papers we were given. Seems there are a number of the lesser staff at this place who haven’t been paid – or, rather, whose paychecks have been light for the last few periods.”

“Don’t tell me…” Delgado was already smiling.

“I have names – and addresses in Whitefish, where most of the staff are housed. I’m thinking a few thousand dollars, placed in the proper and needy hands, might give us an in that we wouldn’t be able to get otherwise…” Fishbain’s face was a study in satisfaction. “A couple of these folks are orderlies – really low level folks who could be convinced to let one of US wear the uniform and slip through the security check…”

“You, my friend, are a genius!” Langer pounded the steering wheel in appreciation. “Using the Centre’s own people against them – it’s classic!”

Delgado resisted the urge to join in the celebration just yet. “Hang on, guys. We still have to get to Whitefish, contact these folks, and figure out exactly what kind of schedule we can make as far as executing the job is concerned. Still…” He clapped the computer expert on the shoulder from the back seat. “…not bad planning. I knew we kept you around for a reason…”

Langer ducked his head slightly as he perused the bunched highway signs, then turned the car north onto highway 15. “Think we can get there tonight?” he asked, an eye to the west and the sun hanging low on the horizon.

“Just drive,” Delgado told him. “You and I both evidently have had more sleep than our friend here – we can make it. We’ll start the actual arrangements in the morning – Dave can see about getting phone numbers and making meeting arrangements for us with the folks on Jerry’s list while Jerry and I scope out the place. I need to see if the blueprints do the actual construction justice – or whether I need to head back to Helena for more C-4.” 

“We need to figure out what the hell we’re gonna do with three kids – teenagers – until we can turn them over to our friend too,” Langer added, nodding as his face sobered quickly. “We gonna keep ‘em drugged, or what?”

“We’re going to neutralize the employees we bribe after we’re done with them – right?” Fishbain asked, glancing over his shoulder at Delgado.

Delgado’s dark eyes met and held the hazel gaze of his comrade. “Since when do we ever leave witnesses behind, Jerry?” was the soft reply.

Fishbain nodded and turned back to watching the road, while Delgado leaned back against the seat and folded his arms across his chest. This job was going to be tricky – and not leaving witnesses behind to point fingers was only one of the messier aspects of the kind of work they did. Still, there were five suitcases stacked carefully in the back of this car filled with nothing but cash that made those messy aspects feasible risks – with the promise of many more similar suitcases once the job was done.

Hell, they wouldn’t have to worry about doing any more jobs for a good long time, when this was over. And THAT made it all worthwhile.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Mr. Raines picked up the receiver. “Yes?”

“Mr. Raines, you have a call on Line 3 from Japan – a Mr. Aoki?” Kristen’s voice announced gently.

“Thank you,” he managed to remember this time just before he pressed the button on the telephone set. “This is William Raines.”

“Raines-san. This is Aoki Toshiro, with a reply to your offer from this morning…”

“Yes?” Raines wheezed only slightly.

“We accept your offer. Exchange will take place tomorrow evening at nine o’clock your time, at Pier 18 in New York Harbor. You may come with one aide – and, of course, our package. Do not be late.”

“Nine o’clock, Pier 18 at New York Harbor,” Raines repeated softly as he wrote down the details, the need not to project his voice making his breathing far less noticeable. “Me and one aide.”

“Tanaka-sama is uninterested in the condition of our package – except that the delivery be made while he is still alive.” Aoki sounded utterly unaffected by the message he was passing along. “Conscious and aware would be optimal – but unnecessary.”

“I will see you tomorrow evening then,” Raines nodded at his phone.

“You will see us, Raines-san,” Aoki corrected coldly. “Do not be late, and do not fail to come. Yakuza will not tolerate any further betrayals from your organization.”

“Trust me,” Raines purred into the phone as best he could, “this delivery will go very smoothly.”

“Good evening, Mr. Raines.” The line went dead in his hands.

He quickly pressed the button that summoned Kristen back to her phone. “Send Willy in now. Tell him I have information he needs to have.”

“Yes, sir,” she replied and hung up immediately.

Raines stretched back to enjoy the comfort of the expensive leather chair. One more day would see a serious problem removed – and with any luck, the restoration of some part of the profitable relationship with the Yakuza that Lyle’s unfortunate failure years ago had nearly destroyed. It would be hard to see how the Triumvirate wouldn’t feel the relief too, once they were informed.

Willy knocked on the glass doors and then entered and moved smoothly to a chair. “Yes, sir?”

Raines smiled at him. “We need to make plans. Tomorrow is going to be a busy day.”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Broots fidgeted, Sydney’s gaze bounced from face to face round the table in what was for him boredom, and Sam glanced at his wristwatch for what had to be the fifth time. Miss Parker’s fingers drummed on her forearms as she sat with her arms crossed over her chest, her eyes narrowed and pinned unmovingly on the doorway. “He’s late,” she hissed finally.

“Yes, ma’am,” Sam answered in a neutral tone that would deflect any of the potential anger forthcoming away from himself. “Five minutes late.”

“Damn it!” She slapped her hands on the table and rose to pace along the back of the room directly at the back end of the Sim Lab, next to Sydney’s office. “He did know about the meeting?”

“I…I reminded him just as he left my office,” Broots looked up with a deer-in-the-headlights expression. “He said that he had something else to check on…”

“Sam.” Miss Parker’s eyes landed on the face of her sweeper like the hand of doom. “Go fetch our tardy auditor from wherever it is that he’s ensconced himself – and be sure to let him know that further tardiness like this will NOT be tolerated.”

“Parker, please…” Sydney chided gently.

“Sam.” Miss Parker’s voice broached no contradiction.

“Yes, ma’am.” Sam headed through the door almost immediately and strode purposefully across the Sim Lab to head down the corridor to where O'Brien had been given his space. Already the foot traffic on Sl-17 was beginning to thin as quitting time drew nigh – researchers and subjects alike were heading back to offices or out of the facility entirely. It was an ideal time to hold a meeting – most of the day’s work was already completed. Sam frowned at the sight of the open door to the office that had been assigned to O'Brien – if the door was open, he was probably there, and had just forgotten the meeting.

Miss Parker would make sure it was the LAST time Gerald O'Brien ever forgot what time a team meeting started, if Sam knew her at all – and the process of teaching that lesson was never a pretty one.

“Hey there! Miss Parker wants you in the Sim Lab meeting room…” Sam started, then hesitated. The figure in the chair didn’t move – and for some reason, the office light was out. “Hey O'Brien,” he called again as he reached for the light switch and threw the room into full illumination.

Sam’s face folded into a look of horror, however, as he finally got a good look at the face of the man seated at the desk. Jerry O'Brien’s expression was one of shock – and the back of his chair, away from which he seemed to sag slightly, was splattered with red and sickening blobs of grey. O'Brien’s face had very little blood on it – only just a very slight amount that had trickled from the neat little hole between the man’s eyes in the few moments before death had settled in.

“Shit! Shit! Shit!”


	6. The Trap Closes

“How the Hell could something like this happen?” Miss Parker demanded of her sweeper, her hands on her hips.

Sam could only shake his head as he watched the orderlies from the in-house morgue wheel away the gurney bearing the body of the accountant covered by a white sheet. He’d already ascertained that the security camera for this office had been compromised as of an hour ago – that there would be no DSA from which a suspect in the shooting could be identified. As a alternative, he’d put in an order for the surveillance footage of the hallway in front of O’Brien’s office, although the requested DSA had yet to be delivered and the delay didn’t bode well at all. “I have no idea, Miss Parker,” was the honest truth – and a frightening one. 

This development, more than anything else that might have happened, confirmed his worst fears – that whoever was plotting the downfall of the Centre already had people inside. Worse, it seemed that these people were in positions that made them able to walk the halls with guns without being noticed. And considering the audacious idea of walking into a working sublevel and assassinating someone in their own office without anyone noticing, Sam knew that whatever trigger he’d been trying so hard to avoid had probably already been pulled. Whether it had been pulled by his own tentative questions, by Broots’ poking into the workings of the mainframe, or even by O’Brien’s queries to whoever it was HE’D spoken to was now a moot issue. His blue eyes rested uneasily on Miss Parker’s face – was she the next one to be silenced? Had he failed to protect her after all?

“Broots, what did you say you and he were working on – duplicate files?” Miss Parker whirled on her computer tech standing to one side with a wide and shocked gaze.

“Th…that was m…my end of it, Miss Parker,” the balding man managed finally. “He charged off after we found the second expense spreadsheet and the re-direct command in the main system files – he said he had something important to follow up on before he’d have a presentation for you… Something about the money…”

“Damn!” Miss Parker’s eyes narrowed suddenly. “Sam! Check and see whether those files – the ones with the receipts – are still here!”

“I think it obvious that we were starting to get too close to whoever was responsible,” Sydney offered solemnly. “And whatever else it is they have to hide, they feel it’s worth killing for.”

“No shit, Sherlock – ya think?” Miss Parker spat and watched her sweeper check everything on O'Brien’s desk – and then look up and shake his head. “Crap!”

The squeak of the oxygen cart wheel that always seemed to need oil and never get it announce Mr. Raines’ approach better than a trumpet fanfare. “What the Hell is going on here?” rasped the rough voice of the Chairman, “and will someone tell me why my auditor is on his way to the morgue?”

“Yes,” smoothed Mr. Lyle’s voice from behind Raines. “Whatever DID you do with the bean-counter, Sis?”

“I didn’t do this!” Miss Parker countered as predictably as always.

“Parker!” Sydney put a hand on her forearm. “You know better than to fall for his bait like that.”

“M…Mr. Raines, s…sir?” Broots took his nervousness at the direct intervention of the Chairman in hand. “M…Mr… O'Brien and I had…. had discovered… some irregularities…”

Mr. Raines whirled on the computer technician. “Do you know anything about this, Mr. Broots?” he demanded.

“I… I found a problem in the system files, sir,” Broots finally managed without too much stammering, “and found a near-duplicate file that every terminal in the Centre except those in Miss Parker’s office would access.” His eyes flicked guiltily over to Mr. Lyle and then looked back at Mr. Raines as easier, somehow, to face. “I found a similar redirect in relation to Mr. Lyle as well – again dealing with the expenses of his end of the Pretender Project.”

Raines found himself speechless. “You mean to tell me that the report that I handed out…”

“Was as fake as they come, sir,” Broots managed before having to swallow his heart back down into his chest. He turned to Miss Parker’s sweeper, still standing behind O'Brien’s desk and trying not to look at the splatter of blood and brains on the wall. “Sam, did you ever get a chance to look up that DSA of the Accounting Pool for last night?”

Sam’s frown deepened. “Another non-functional surveillance camera,” he announced unhappily. “I’m starting to believe we have a saboteur employed here at the Centre – someone in a position that they can tamper with security with relative impunity.”

“Unacceptable!” Raines exploded. He whirled on Miss Parker mercilessly. “You’re the head of Security – it’s your responsibility…”

“My team was the one that uncovered the problem in the first place,” Miss Parker answered with a quick breath to keep from exploding herself, “and was in the process of investigating who was doing it and how they did it – in hopes of eventually knowing why. MY team WAS working on this ourselves – no thanks to Lyle here… who’s been up to who-knows-what…”

“Negotiating on the Albanian contract,” Lyle hissed defensively. “I don’t have to answer to YOU for my doing my job…” He wouldn’t add that the majority of the day had been spent putting pressure on the Vostov Sydnicate to pay for their latest shipment of handguns – that deal had been hammered out without the official sanction of the Centre and the profit wasn’t headed anywhere near a General Fund in Centre Accounting. He’d already been obliged to pay Smith and Wesson out of his personal funds in order to keep them from making formal complaints to other Centre officials and exposing the deal – and until the Vosov organization paid, there would now be NO profit from this entire venture.

“Miss Parker’s efforts have obviously worried whoever it was that set this entire scheme up,” Sydney offered once more to the expanded audience. “Evidently, they feel strongly enough about it to kill to keep from being further exposed…”

Raines gave Sydney a sharp glare, but had to admit that the old psychiatrist was probably right. “I want to know who feels they can pull off sanctions on Centre personnel within our headquarters with impunity – and I want to know now!”

“So do I,” Miss Parker glared at her twin with open hostility. “Trust me, so do I.”

“You still suspect me,” Lyle pointed out the obvious. “Can’t you wrap your mind around the idea that I had nothing whatsoever to do with…”

“You’re always up to your eyeballs in whatever is going on around here that’s not entirely on the up-and-up,” Miss Parker retaliated unrepentantly. “Finding out that you’re the one behind this wouldn’t surprise me in the least.”

“This bickering will get us nowhere!” Raines wheezed noisily, a hand at his throat as the intake of oxygen simply didn’t adequately refresh his system. “Get back to work, all of you – and find me the person responsible for this!” He gasped from the expenditure of breath needed to shout and then gestured impatiently to Willy to take charge of the little squeaky oxygen cart so that he could head back to the relative safety of the Tower.

Miss Parker didn’t flinch from her glaring stare at her twin. “Sam, I want a full forensics team in this office as of two hours ago – I want fingerprints and whatever else those folks deal with gathered and processed. In the meantime, I want YOU to personally track down any surveillance footage that will tell us more than we know now – which is bupkis! Make sure that you confirm my… brother’s alibi that he was working in his office all this time too – just to rule him out as a suspect, of course.”

“You’re so kind,” Lyle sneered as he watched his sister’s sweeper walk purposefully down the corridor away from them.

“Be glad I’m giving you the benefit of the doubt,” she snarled back. “Broots, see if you can find out just who it was that our defunct bean-counter had to talk to when he left you – and see if that person has the information that O'Brien wanted.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Broots skittered away, more than contented to take his investigation back into what seemed to be safer waters.

“What can I do to help, Miss Parker?” Sydney asked with gentle deference.

Blue-grey caught and held the old psychiatrist’s warm chestnut gaze. “You can help me try to think this thing through,” she sighed finally. “Why the hell would someone try to fake an over-inflated expense account for a nearly dead project – and then kill to keep their identity secret?”

“What would you suggest my team and I do to help you?” Lyle asked suddenly as if realizing that perhaps being a genuine help rather than a hindrance might be in his own best interests.

Miss Parker glanced over her shoulder at him. “Stay the hell out of my way,” she snapped and then tucked her hand into Sydney’s elbow, “because if I find out that you’ve been obstructing us at all, I’ll hand over body parts on platters – none of them attached, and none quite so unnecessary as a thumb.”

“Miss Parker, must you always be so confrontational?” Sydney’s voice was soft enough that only Miss Parker herself would hear the comment.

“I’m still not sure that Lyle’s not involved in this up to his ass, Syd,” she returned only slightly less harshly. “Although I have to admit that getting himself in trouble only to take out the one person who seemed on the verge of getting him OUT of trouble makes even less sense…”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

“Are you INSANE?” Vickering wasn’t quite shouting into the telephone, but the intensity of his voice carried clearly. “We were going to try to keep Miss Parker from twigging to anything – and now, if anything, we’ve got her firmly on the warpath.”

“Relax, Jake,” Jim McKenna soothed his brother. “You called and said that you were really in trouble – and all I did was activate one of our other operatives in the Centre to take out the most troublesome element of that problem.”

“But she KNOWS that this goes deeper than just a little money shuffling now,” Vickering repeated. “I just had to field a visit from one of her lackies regarding O'Brien’s visit here earlier today…”

“And what did you tell the lackey?” McKenna asked patiently.

“As much of the truth as I dared,” was the response. “That O'Brien had come with some concerns as to who would have endorsed the reimbursement checks…”

“And…” McKenna didn’t sound happy at all.

“I told him the truth – after all, a search of the mainframe would have uncovered the truth eventually anyway. But what I DIDN’T tell him was the destination of the electronic transfers…”

There was a sigh of relief on the other end of the line. “THAT would have been harder to explain,” McKenna agreed. “How much of our current program do you feel will be compromised in the near future as the result of this?”

Vickering shook his head. “I’ve not had a lot to do with Miss Parker or her team – I’ve only heard about them from others…”

“Jake, this is part of what you were supposed to be making your business…”

“I know that!” Vickering snapped and then relented slightly as he admitted, “I have to admit that I wasn’t counting on them being able to put two and two together about the duplicate spreadsheets quite so fast. That computer geek of Miss Parker’s is something else! I was going to be able to snowball O'Brien – but this guy…”

“Perhaps it isn’t so much Miss Parker we need to take care of then,” McKenna offered thoughtfully.

“You’d better stay away from her team,” Vickering warned. “I’ve heard stories about how she doesn’t stand for anybody threatening them – if we want to keep her distracted, the LAST thing we want to do is give her a reason to come after us in a big way.”

“Distraction…” McKenna mused aloud. “An effective misdirection of her efforts would serve our agenda nicely. We need to give her a better bone to gnaw on than following the little bit of fraud we perpetrated on her expense account. What do we have on them we can feed her?”

“I’m stuck down here in Accounting, remember?” Vickering snapped bitterly. “Maybe you need to touch base with another of your imbedded operatives here at the Centre?”

“That’s an excellent idea, Jake,” McKenna nodded in satisfaction. “Just make sure that the sniffing stays the hell away from the important things – like Duplicity…”

“Duplicity hasn’t been run through the normal books,” Vickering reminded his twin. “That’s why it came to my attention – remember?”

“Just make sure that you keep those electronic transfers away from her – and I’ll see what I can do to distract her from getting any closer to you.” McKenna sniffed. “Although, with any luck, it soon shouldn’t matter whether we have to take her out or not. I’m hoping to hear from my team in Montana shortly with a time frame for the coup de grace.”

“You hope,” Vickering snorted. “The Centre is resourceful and clever. Raines has been pulling rabbits out of hats financially for years now – he may just have another whole clutch of bunnies hidden right under our noses.”

“Just do your job, Jake. You just have to keep the cover going for a little while longer, and then you can come home again – just think of it!”

“There are very rare moments when I don’t think of it,” Vickering grumbled.

“I’ll be in touch.” McKenna closed down the connection from his end – and Vickering had to really restrain himself from slamming the receiver down into the cradle. 

Damn it! Killing the young accountant hadn’t been part of the plan. O'Brien was a bright if over-eager young man still untainted by lengthy tenure at the Centre – he’d actually hoped to be able to lure him to the Foundation once the Centre had crumbled. And now, thanks to O'Brien’s death, Miss Parker was all the more dangerous.

It sure would be a helluva note for the Foundation to get this close to putting an end to the Centre – only to screw it up royally. Vickering found himself wishing he knew more about the Foundation team already deployed in the midst of the Centre – so he could have more control over this end of the operation.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

“Mrs. Mutumbo, its an honor.” Jim McKenna bowed gracefully to the stately African woman who walked toward him with an almost regal bearing. Her turbaned head matched the material of the subdued print of her dress – with the only distinctive item of clothing being a colorfully striped scarf that draped neatly and straight over her left shoulder.

“Mr. McKenna.” Lula looked around her at the hotel that had been selected as her home away from home for the duration of this visit and then nodded to her personal assistant to begin unloading the back end of the limousine. “Are the reservations here all in order?”

“Indeed. You’re already checked in.” McKenna held out a folder. “Your key cards are enclosed – and I have the key cards for the rooms allocated to your staff, as agreed upon.” He put out a hand, indicating the direction of the elevators. “Allow me to show you the way to your suite.” He nodded at the bellhop standing attentively next to a luggage cart, and the young man moved to follow the assistant to the car to help her unload even as McKenna took charge of escorting the hotel’s newest guest to her suite. 

Lula managed to wait until the elevator doors closed, leaving her alone with the Chairman of the Foundation, before speaking again. “You received my message about the group being sent to Montana?” she asked tersely.

“I did,” McKenna inclined his head slightly. “I feel it necessary to express my regrets to you ahead of time for the loss of your employees – as we are almost ready to move against the Montana facility as we speak.”

“I would have hoped that you would move before my people were present,” Lula frowned.

McKenna shook his head. “There was no way to do that without jeopardizing our plan to confiscate and make use of the Centre’s prized research pets,” he told her frankly. “When all is said and done, I want nothing left behind there that leads back to us – either you OR me.”

“You do realize that if either Ugo or Shinse decide to accompany the task force – and they don’t live to return to Africa – we both will have to watch over our shoulders very carefully for the rest of our lives,” she warned with raised brows. “I will do my best to protect you as best I can – but to take active part in the death of a Council member…”

“As I was saying, Mrs. Mutumbo, we want to make certain there are no loose threads that lead back to the Foundation. Unfortunately, that will mean eliminating everyone on-site when the time comes, whether that be your Council President or a mere flunky.” McKenna’s voice was firm. “Too many years have gone into the planning of this to be deterred at the last minute by unexpected guests.”

“Do you have a facility ready to house your prized captives?” Lula asked curiously. “You’ve been very closed-mouthed about the arrangements you’ve been making…”

“All in due time, Mrs. Mutumbo,” McKenna replied smoothly. “In many ways, its better that you NOT know the details for the time being. Rest assured that when all is in place, you will be given all the details you need.”

“The Triumvirate doesn’t like to function that much in the dark, Mr. McKenna,” she informed him with a sniff. “If we are going to be asked to invest heavily in your company, we will need to know everything you know – AS you know it.”

McKenna nodded as the elevator door slipped to the side. “When your investment is in place, we will be more than happy to include you and your associates in every possible facet of our operation. Until then, however, we reserve the right to use discretion – I’m sure you understand…”

Lula didn’t reply, but moved ahead of her escort as they moved down the short corridor to the double doors that were the entrance to the Presidential Suite that had evidently been set aside for her use. It was now obvious that she had forgotten that the Centre had been beholden to the Triumvirate for so long that she’d expected a request for full involvement to get an immediate response. It was equally obvious that this Jake McKenna of the Eire Foundation didn’t intend to allow himself to be a lap dog. The Foundation hadn’t come to her – and through her to the Triumvirate – as a penitent, but rather as a fully profitable operation seeking to expand its horizons. Already this boded well for the Triumvirate – which would be making a business investment based upon performance rather than an investment in a myth. 

Her husband, Bolo Mutumbo, had believed in the myth that Charles Parker had sold him over fifty years earlier – that there were ancient scrolls that foretold of the empire the Centre would become and the signs to watch for. With Triumvirate help, the Centre had indeed risen in power and prestige, convincing him that there was truth to what these scrolls foretold. He’d erred, however, in thinking the Parkers incapable of protecting this mysterious treasure – ending up dead during a visit to New York that was intended to coerce the mythic treasure from the Centre’s immediate possession. Adama, his immediate successor, had died supposedly transporting those same scrolls to Africa, as had Charles Parker Jr – and the mysterious scrolls themselves had supposedly disappeared into the ocean.

Lula, on the other hand, only had faith in what she could see and measure and its relevance to the bottom line – in the established ability of a firm with whom she invested consortium funds to provide a sizeable return on the investment. With the Eire Foundation, she had a feeling that there would be little mystique or myth, no reason to withhold or obscure outside simple security considerations. The Foundation, like the Centre, was in the business of making money and accumulating power – unlike the Centre, however, it wasn’t afraid to let its efforts see the light of day. For the most part, anyway.

Perhaps there was more to the Foundation than that which she’d become familiar so far. And perhaps she should practice the same kind of discretion that her host was practicing – not being too open anymore about the workings of the Council or its delegates.

Better not to trust too much too soon…

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Jarod hit the PrintScreen key to send the document on his monitor to his printer and then closed out the adminstrative window. He’d spent the better part of his day being introduced to a number of his immediate co-workers and the head of the department in which he’d been placed. Only during the last half hour or so had he quietly begun poking through the files in the Foundation mainframe computer that dealt with Bob Rogers – and even then slipping his searching between spurts of actually doing the job he’d been ostensibly hired to do. And even though he knew his search had just started, already he’d found enough to know that the newspaper story had probably been doctored and vetted by Foundation sources prior to printing – no big surprise there.

Bob Rogers had indeed been a researcher – but not a structural or electronics engineer. He’d been a psychologist working on a project peripherally related to weapons research – his latest endeavor had been to observe and catalogue the response of the human psyche to being behind the kind of lethal weapons that killed man with a single blast. In many ways, and without the benefit of the Pretender gene and its associated genius, Rogers had been attempting to SIM the repeated deployment of certain types of weapons and the emotional/psychological reactions of the soldiers who would be the ones aiming and shooting them.

The file he’d finally found just as the sounds of day-end activity had started to break around him out in the hallway had been a tersely-written memo from a Clive Arnold – Jim McKenna’s Executive Assistant. Written to the head of the Psychology Department, the memo had been a very clear directive to lose the last report Rogers had filed – something about flawed data. Jarod would have begun to follow that lead, but the level of friendly chatter in the hallway outside his door was beginning to grow louder, signaling that most in the department were getting ready to head home for the day. If he didn’t want to be obvious, he’d have to leave off his search until sometime tomorrow.

So he shot the entirety of the file to the printer and, once the paper was spewing obediently, logged out of the system entirely. He’d be able to continue his search from home – the Foundation mainframe operating system was no more secure from his touch than the Centre’s ever had been. He rose, shifted the printed copy of the memo to his briefcase, grabbed up his overcoat after a glance out the window told him the weather had turned wet – just as the weatherman had promised just that morning – and turned out the light in his office.

“Old man McKenna’s gonna have a cow!” Jarod heard as he stood at the edges of a small knot of people waiting for the elevator.

“Only if we don’t have that new wing open to house the new project in time,” another voice responded jauntily. “We still have about a week to make the place habitable and get the laboratories ready.”

“I still haven’t figured out just what KIND of labs these are,” the first voice definitely sounded frustrated – as if pressed by the responsibility of his duties. “Great big, huge plastic bubbles with the top dome hinged being suspended from the ceilings? Rooms with theatrical props and walls that are projection screens? EEG monitors all over the place? White boards and bookcases enough to house a small library – with a small fortune in scientific texts and treatises in boxes…”

“SHhhhhh!” the second voice hushed suddenly. “You want to get fired for loose lips? Jeez Louise!” The elevator door opened and the knot of folks stepped inside – but the conversation had been cut short by the hissed warning.

Jarod moved to the back of the little moving cubicle, feeling as if a hand had tightened a band about his chest, making it hard to breathe. The last time he’d ever seen a plastic bubble with a hinged top suspended from the ceiling, it had been in Sydney’s Sim Lab in the bowels of the Centre – and he’d been climbing out of that bubble after yet another SIM in which a claustrophobic environment had been needed to aid in the task. What in the hell was the Foundation doing, setting up what sounded like was going to be another Sim Lab?

There was a facility being prepared within this very building – that much was certain! As he forced himself to hold onto the neutral expression on his face, he promised himself that on top of digging for more information on what Bob Rogers had been up to that had caused his death, he would find out just what a Sim Lab was being set up to make possible.

Keeping himself anonymous within that small knot of employees heading for their cars and their private lives once more, Jarod didn’t breathe freely until he’d clambered into his little sedan and locked the door. He leaned his head back against the headrest for a long moment, struggling to get his equilibrium back. More and more, the Foundation was beginning to resemble the Centre – not only in the form of its computer interface, but now with the possibility of… what? Did he think the Foundation had found itself a Pretender – that it was going to start up its own version of the Pretender Project?

The very thought made his stomach turn.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

“See you tomorrow, Evan!” Darrel Miller waved to his friend across the softball field.

“See you!” Evan waved back, hanging his mitt on his favorite bat and heading toward where he’d left his bike locked up amid a line of others. Megan liked to have him home no later than six o’clock, so she could serve supper promptly at six thirty – and he still had a five-minute bike ride ahead of him. As the team prepared for its big game on Saturday with the Dover Patriots, he kept inching closer to violating that curfew, he knew. He’d have to do something really nice for his foster mom to make up for his tardiness.

“Hey! Kid!”

The dark head turned to watch a tall man climb from a car. Evan frowned – he knew better than to talk to strangers. He bent to try to unlock his bicycle without taking his eye from the approaching man.

“Kid! I was wondering if you could do me a favor?”

Evan’s fingers were shaking. This was EXACTLY the kind of thing they had talked about in class just the other day – where people would come up and ask for help just before grabbing and shoving him in the car and driving him off who-knows-where to do awful things to him. What was more, the bicycle lock wasn’t cooperating. He straightened, fully ready to just throw the bat at the man and make a dash for safety.

Evidently the man realized he was frightening him and had stopped several paces away. “I just want you to give a message to your sister, kid,” the man stated, offering out an envelope in a hand. “Can you deliver this to her?”

Evan knew better – and put his hands behind him. “I don’t know you,” he said in a deeply suspicious tone.

“I know you don’t,” the man nodded understandingly. “I tell you what – I’ll put this down on the ground and go back to my car – just promise me you’ll take this to your sister. OK?”

Evan inched around the end of the bike rack. “Go on,” he directed, pointing. “Put it down then.”

“You’ll deliver it to your sister?”

“Maybe.” Evan wasn’t making any promises about anything until the man was safely out of range.

Stan Bateman had to admire the spunk of the Parker boy – the kid literally looked as if he was ready to bolt. When the call had come from Philadelphia that afternoon, he’d had a chance to spend a few hours watching him. The chances to just snatch the kid hadn’t come as easily as he’d expected – the boy kept in the middle of a small group of boys and didn’t wander – even on the school playground. The assignment had been to make the pictures look as if it would have been easy to snatch the kid – and the assignment had been a challenge.

Still, he’d done a good job – even if he did say so himself. He laid the envelope in the dust and backed away from it slowly. “Take it,” he urged, continuing to back away. “Just make sure your sister gets it – today, if possible, OK?”

Evan waited until the man had the door to the car open and had half climbed back into it before he made the slightest move – and then darted forward to grab up the envelope and dash back to his bike. The car with the stranger backed carefully from the parking space and headed away again, and Evan breathed a huge sigh of relief. Finally he dared watch what he was doing in unlocking his bike and settled his backpack with the bat and mitt protruding from it on his back after sticking the envelope into the smaller front pocket. 

Megan was going to be so mad at him, he knew as he pedaled the bike as fast as his legs could pump.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Fishbain studied the photo on his laptop and then lifted the binoculars to his eyes again. “That’s him,” he announced to Delgado. “Chuck Seabring – lowest janitor on the local payroll.”

The two men in the car watched the Centre employee enter the liquor store and then, only a few minutes later, exit with a small, brown paper bag in hand. Already his step was less than steady – and no doubt the contents of the bag were intended to further that condition considerably over the course of the evening.

Delgado shook his head. “What’s his story?”

“Wife took up with the postman and ditched him about a month ago,” Fishbain sneered – obviously unimpressed. “He’s got a record of drunk-and-disorderly with the local taverns – and a domestic disturbance call the other day. He’s behind on the rent and has three credit card companies howling at his door. He’s ideal for our purposes…”

“Wife left him, eh?” Delgado asked in a neutral tone.

“He’s a loser,” Fishbain responded in the same tone, knowing exactly what his team leader was thinking. “He has his job – barely. It’s at the absolute bottom of the ladder as far as authority and access is concerned, but it will serve to get us into the facility.” He looked a challenge at Delgado. “That’s all you need, right?”

Langer was watching the man walk back down the narrow mainstreet of Whitefish with a calculating look on his face. “We’ll need to make two copies of his ID – one for Fish and one for you. Prep time will have to fit into two working days – one for Fish to set up his cameras so we can get an idea of the schedule our targets keep, and the next day is when Chuck can start setting his explosives. That means we’ll be ready to make our move in four days…”

“Four days?” Delgado frowned. “I thought you said prep would take only two days?”

“It’s going to take longer than just a twenty-four hour period to observe and make sure of what is happening on a schedule and what is unusual activity,” Langer explained patiently. “What’s more, it may take longer than a twenty-four hour period for you to get all the C-4 into the right places to take this joint down in one big bang. Not to mention that whoever has made the trip inside is going to have to do just enough toilet cleaning and floor mopping not to call attention to himself…”

“So?”

“While Fish is inside setting up cameras, I’ll be starting to coordinate the observation and making further contacts with two more bottom-rung employees. And Chuck, while you are setting your charges, I’ll be testing the circuitry to make sure the blast happens properly – AND formulating the final phase plans for getting our targets out of the danger zone with enough of a safety margin before the joint blows. This is a precision job – we can’t afford any errors. So we take the time to do it right the first time…”

“When do we make contact with this Chuck Seabring?” Fishbain asked quietly.

Delgado started up the engine on the small sedan. “No better timte than the present,” he muttered as much to himself as to anyone else. “And with him out of the way, we have a base of operations that doesn’t leave any traces.” He glanced at the back seat. “Dave – you all set?”

Langer opened a small black bag and extracted a hypodermic needle and a bottle of clear liquid. “Just give me a minute…” The clear liquid squirted into the air to clear the hypo of any air bubbles. “Ready.” He put the cap back over the needle and slipped it into his shirt pocket. “One little trip to sleep, all set to go.”

Delgado snorted and Fishbain chuckled mirthlessly. Langer’s shot would do more than just give Chuck Seabring a restful sleep – and they all knew it. They just didn’t need to talk it through anymore. 

Chuck Seabring’s moments on earth were now rapidly drawing to a close – he just didn’t know it yet.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Megan Laughton opened the front door and then simply stood back so that Miss Parker could enter the house. “I’m glad you could come so quickly,” she told the tall brunette in an anxious voice as she carefully shut and then locked the front door behind her. “When Evan told me what all had happened…”

“Sissy!” Evan trotted into the living room and directly into his big sister’s arms. “I’m glad you’re here.”

“I’m just glad you’re all right,” Miss Parker breathed as she hugged the boy to her tightly and then set him away to look at him closely, to make sure that he was indeed unharmed. “When Megan called me…” She shook herself from her visions of horror and led the child toward the couch to sit down with her. “Now – I want you to tell me exactly what happened – and don’t leave anything out.”

Evan related the event as clearly as he could, and then added, “He just asked me if I would do him a favor. And then he put the envelope on the ground and walked back to his car…”

Miss Parker looked up at Megan. “May I see the envelope please?” she asked tersely, and then accepted the item. “Have you looked in it yet?”

Megan shook her head. “It’s addressed to you, Miss Parker. Evan wanted to open it too – but I told him that you should see it first.”

Miss Parker looked at the printing on the envelope – it had obviously come from a printer, and not the hand of an individual – and then ran her finger beneath the flap to tear along the top edge. She slipped her hand into the envelope and knew instantly what was inside – photographs – and steeled herself for what they would show. They were clear shots – the distance from which they were taken impossible to gauge from the photos themselves. In each, Evan was the obvious target – during play on the playground and even during his softball practice. There were six pictures in all – and on the back of the final one were hastily scrawled words: “It would be so easy.”

“Miss Parker?” Megan had seen the color fade from the face of the autocratic sister of her foster child, and the sight had chilled her. “What is it?”

Miss Parker handed her the photographs, knowing that her brother’s foster mother would find them just as threatening as she did. “Evan, I need you to describe this man as best you can. Was he tall or short? Young or old?”

“He was tall – about the same age as Tom…”

“Dark hair, blonde…”

“Dark hair,” Evan answered immediately. “Very curly and a little long.”

“Does that sound familiar?” Megan demanded to know. 

Miss Parker shook her head, her lips pressed tightly together. “It could be anyone.”

“What was in the envelope?” asked a deep male voice, and a very tall and blonde Tom Laughton came into the living room from the back of the house.

“Pictures,” Megan answered her husband and handed him the pictures.

Tom’s dark blue eyes hardened as he flipped through the pictures one by one. “I take it, you don’t know the person who left this for you?”

Miss Parker held out her hand for the pictures, turned them over, and then fanned them like cards until she could see the one with the writing on the back. “Whether I know HIM or not doesn’t seem to be the issue,” she replied, holding the inverted picture up so that Tom could read what was written.

His face folded into an unhappy frown. “What are you going to do?”

“Sissy?” Evan was starting to become frightened – even though the man had tossed the envelope on the ground and then backed away, it was obvious from the reactions of the adults that something was very wrong.

Miss Parker put her arm around her little brother and held him close again. “Don’t worry, Evan – you did just fine.”

“Are you going to call the police?” Megan pressed.

“No,” Miss Parker shook her head. “We don’t have enough to file a complaint.” She ran her hand up and down Evan’s arm while she tossed around responses in her mind. “I think the best thing to do is for me to arrange for a bodyguard for Evan when he’s outside of the house – and to give you two a little extra security around here.” She nodded, satisfied with her answer. “I’ll call Sam and have him assign a couple of sweepers he can trust to watch over Evan from now on.”

“Is that going to be enough?” Tom crossed his arms over his chest and glared down at the woman on his sofa.

Miss Parker gazed back up at him evenly and worked hard not to let her anxiety and confusion be betrayed by her expression. “These will be highly-trained individuals, Tom – keeping people safe and away from trouble is what they’re paid to do.”

“Tom,” Megan moved to her husband’s side and put a hand on his shoulder. “I’m sure that Miss Parker will do everything she can to keep Evan and us safe…”

“That’s for sure…” Miss Parker kissed her little brother on the forehead and then rose. “I’ll make the arrangements from home – and you can expect a sweeper on your front porch within the hour. Let him in – and let him do a walk-through of the house. The Centre will be paying for upgrading the security here at the house – and Evan will have someone to watch over him wherever he goes from now on.”

“Even into the bathroom?” Evan asked in surprise and a little hesitation.

Miss Parker had to smile. “Well,” she compromised with him, “maybe not into the stall with you – but otherwise…”

“Will this man know how to play softball?”

“Evan, I don’t think you need to worry your sister…” Tom frowned at the boy.

“It’s all right,” Miss Parker chuckled. “You’ll have to ask him. But I need to get home so I can make the calls – and you need to get your homework done yet, I bet…”

“Awwww….”

“Thank you for coming,” Megan smiled at Miss Parker, her face clearly concerned – and yet relieved, “and for your help.”

“See you later, Evan,” Miss Parker waved at her brother and then nodded at the Laughtons. As she heard the door close behind her and the deadbolt being thrown once more into place, her mind started to race.

The pictures were a warning. But… 

A warning about what?

Did this have anything to do with the death of Jerry O'Brien? This veiled threat coming hard on the heels of that assassination was just too much of a coincidence to ignore. What in the hell was going on – and what was the common thread?

Miss Parker slipped into the driver’s seat of her black Boxster and pulled her cell phone from her purse to press and programmed number. “Sam? I want the names of two sweepers you trust implicitly delivered to my house in a half hour…”

“Miss Parker?” Sam’s voice sounded startled.

“Seems we may have tripped over something bigger than we originally thought. Just be at my house in a half hour – and have those names ready. We’re going to be changing their duty list for the time being…”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

“Well?” Lyle’s voice was eager. “Did you get it?”

“His name is Kevin Chang, and he’s a diplomatic attaché to the US ambassador’s office in Beijing,” the calm and informative detective announced. “Seems he and your Miss Chu attended the same school in San Francisco – and then were together at Stanford for a number of years before…”

“Enough!” Lyle’s face had folded into frustration. “They have a history together?”

“Every time the ambassador visits home, he makes a stop to visit with her,” the detective confirmed. “There’s a nosy neighbor two doors down from your Miss Chu that keeps expecting Miss Chu to begin wearing an engagement ring any day now.”

“Damn!”

“Do you want me to continue to watch them?” the detective asked cautiously.

“No…YES!” Lyle burst out, changing his mind in the blink of an eye. “I want to know this Kevin Chang’s schedule – where he goes, what he does, how long it takes…”

“Same price as before,” the detective informed his customer. “And payment on the Chu assignment is now due and payable prior to any further service…”

“You’ll get your money,” Lyle growled, his grey-blue eyes snapping. “Seven hundred dollars a day plus expenses. There will be an envelope sent to you via General Delivery at the regular post office waiting for you in the morning. I want this information as soon as possible – is that understood?”

“Always good doing business with you, Mr. Lyle,” the detective drawled and then disconnected the call.

Lyle snarled as he slammed the receiver back down in the cradle. Not only did his intended have a life after all, but it was a long-standing one…

He rose and stalked to the window of his apartment and looked out into the courtyard that all of the apartments in the complex shared. How could he have so misjudged her? She was supposed to be a loner – the detective had watched her for over a week, and he had spent the better part of the weekend preparing for his time with her. His time with the prostitute had been a poor alternative to the pleasures he’d anticipated – although the horror and fear that had poured from the girl’s very pores as she came to realize her fate had been satisfying in and of itself. Then there was the cut of meat currently inhabiting a baggie in his refrigerator, awaiting its date with his wok and a select concoction of stir-fried vegetables…

The phone rang again, summoning him from his musing. “What?” he barked as he put the receiver to his ear. 

“Mr. Lyle,” a smooth and musical Russian voice purred into his ear. “How are you doing today?”

“I’m out several hundred thousand dollars, thank you,” Lyle snapped back irritably. “You were supposed to have delivered payment on those handguns over a week ago, Alexi…”

“Ah, my friend! Life has kept me a little preoccupied,” Alexi Vostov exclaimed. “Our ogranization has experienced a number of setbacks…”

“Let me put it to you another way,” Lyle snarled. “If you intend to purchase any more weaponry from the Centre, you’ll find your past credit history a definite obstacle. AND I’m sure I need not remind you that for every day that passes, the interest on the loan – and it is a loan at this point – is compounding substantially…”

“We are aware of the amount of money owed,” Vostov’s expansive tone of voice had become brittle.

“I think not,” Lyle stabbed at his desktop with a fierce forefinger. “Don’t make me have to take other measures…”

“You are in no position to threaten me, Mr. Lyle,” Vostov snarled back. “The financial state of the Centre is common knowledge among many of my colleagues. I seriously doubt you have the corporate wherewithal to force anybody to do anything.”

“Why you…” Lyle was beyond livid.

“Shut up,” Vostov snapped. “My organization knows the debt it owes – and you can be assured you’ll receive every penny owed. But don’t threaten me – and stop having your secretary calling me three times a day to remind me of our obligation. The pressure isn’t going to work – and angering myself and my associates is not a wise move for you at this time.” Lyle’s mouth gaped at the audacity of the mobster. “I will be in touch with you when we have your payment ready. Good day.”

Lyle slowly replaced the receiver in the cradle, his heart pounding. He needed some of that money back soon – how else was he going to pay for the outrageous fees that the detective was going to be charging to keep an eye on Kevin Chang without it? 

The Vostov Mob would have to be made to pay – and pay handsomely – for the insult it had just given the Centre. Lyle folded his hands in front of his mouth and leaned forward on his elbows. All he had to do now was figure out a way to make them pay – without getting burned in the process.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Sam sat in his car, shaken to his very soul.

Of all the threats he’d expected to field for Miss Parker, having to arrange for twenty-four hour surveillance and bodyguards for her little brother was the last thing he’d have thought of. And even now, knowing that some of his closest associates within the sweeper corps were handling the situation on the other side of town, he was feeling anything but secure.

The threat against Evan had to be a diversion – something designed to get Miss Parker’s attention away from whatever it was that she was getting too close to. But in typical Miss Parker fashion, the diversion had only worked to strengthen her resolve to get to the bottom of the maze of mystery that was slowly being uncovered. While he’d been there to witness, she’d called Broots at home and added a new dimension to the search he would be doing in the mainframe when he went back to work in the morning. 

Which meant that the threat to Miss Parker hadn’t lessened – and the assassination of the eager bean-counter had been but an opening move in a complex chess game where the only way to win would be to survive. 

Sam sighed. He started up his car and began moving down the drive toward the road – then pulled into the shadows of a shrub that grew close to the driveway entrance. It stood to reason that anyone willing to approach a little boy in broad daylight would be just as willing to try to enter the gated property during the dark of night. 

He could call in more of his associates – but doing so might get back to Miss Parker, who would no doubt be full of questions that he didn’t want to have to answer. That left him no choice…

He would vary his point of surveillance, so that none would be able to tell when or if the summerhouse was being watched. And he’d have to try to grab an hour or so of sleep immediately after leaving work, so that his fatigue wouldn’t show too much. And maybe get a nap in during what should be a lunch break. He could do this… he HAD to do this!

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Stan Bateman sat in a darkened sedan and smiled as he watched the sweeper obviously settle in for what would be a very long and boring night.

After all, he’d already taken the time to check out the premises while Miss Parker had been called over to her little brother’s foster family’s house. There were a few tiny chinks in the security system – shadows in which an intruder could hide until the most opportune moment, the fact that her car sat outside the front door of the house where anybody with serious intent could get at it. 

It hadn’t come to that yet – Mr. McKenna would surely contact him personally if or when the time came to remove Miss Parker from the scene permanently – but the advance work was finished. Bateman chuckled to himself as he watched the silhouette of the sweeper settle back against the headrest of the seat, making himself as invisible as possible. Not tonight, my friend, he thought in amusement. All you’re going to get for your troubles is a bad case of the drags in the morning.

And with that, Bateman turned the key in the ignition and moved on down the street for nearly a block before turning on his headlights.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

“How’s it coming?” Langer leaned over Fishbain’s shoulder and peered at the laptop’s screen to see a photograph of himself being carefully put in place on a color representation of the Centre identification badge.

“Just a few minutes here,” Langer replied almost absently, adjusting the fit of the photo to the blank space in the scanned image where Chuck Seabring’s picture had once been. “Now I have to do is print it out and laminate it – and you’ll be official.”

“Not bad, if I do say so myself,” Delgado picked up the badge that his computer expert had already handed him from where it had sat on top of the blueprints to the Centre facility they were about to penetrate. Provided that neither he nor Langer did anything to call attention to themselves as they entered the facility, the fact that the thumb print on the ID, the thumb print in the computer’s memory and a fresh print from the living individual wouldn’t match would never come up. 

“Do we know when he’s supposed to be at work next?” Langer asked, tossing a casual thumb over his shoulder at where the body of Chuck Seabring had been dumped in the corner of the room.

“Eight o’clock in the morning, sharp,” was Delgado’s answer. “Jerry will take his shift tomorrow – to put in the taps to the video feed and get a beginning of a schedule for our targets.”

“I’m just gonna love scrubbing floors and patching into camera feeds,” Fishbain shook his head. “I never thought of dishpan hands as a side-effect of getting a computer job done right…”

“Quit yer bitching,” Delgado told him sharply, tossing the badge to the side of the blueprint. “The important thing for you to do is to get all those feed patches in tomorrow – so that when I can take your place, I can make the guards there more familiar with me so that they don’t remember that I’m the third face with this badge.” He picked up his highlighting pen again and made another colored mark where one of his charges would do the most damage.

“When we gonna start planning how we’re going to snatch the kids before the place blows?” Fishbain retorted, hitting the button to send the new version of the identication badge to the printer and then turning to face his team leader. “Three kids is going to take ALL of us inside at the same time…”

“That jerk isn’t going to be the only one to go missing – only to be presumed lost in the blast,” Delgado shook his head. “You said you had a number of names and addresses – we’re going to need one each on the last day.”

“What are we going to do with the stiffs?” Langer asked, once more casting his casual thumb in the direction of the former Mr. Seabring. “It’s too late in the year to just bury them…”

“The blueprints say that the parking garage is attached to the main facility. On the day we snatch the kids, we bring the stiffs to work with us – and leave them in one of the two cars we use.” Delgado smiled coldly. “And I’ll make sure that the parking garage falls just as completely as the rest of it – maybe even setting a charge in the car to scatter body parts all over the place ahead of time.”

Fishbain nodded contentedly and reached for the paper the printer had just spit out. “I’ll be glad when its this time next week,” he stated as he positioned the paper and began to cut the identification badge down to the size it needed to be to be laminated. “I’ve just got this gut feeling…”

“Stow the gut feelings,” Delgado warned sharply. “This is a gig, like all the others – and we’re being VERY well paid for our time. Don’t forget that.”

Langer pushed himself away from leaning over Fishbain and headed for the kitchen. “I suppose I should see whether this idiot had any food on hand…”

“I’m sure he’s got plenty of liquid meals,” Delgado commented wryly. “Let’s just make sure none of us dip into it, shall we? We need to keep our heads clear to make this thing work.”

Langer scowled when he knew his team leader couldn’t see it. HE didn’t need to get up in the morning – and he’d have precious little to do until some of the video feeds had had their remote taps implanted. HE could have a beer – couldn’t he?

Then again, the last thing he wanted to do was face an irate Delgado. They WERE being very well paid – and he could afford to wait until the job was finished before satisfying an itch.


	7. All The Ducks In A Row

Broots had just about had enough of looking at columns of numbers – and it wasn’t even noon yet.

Working on the premise that Jerry O’Brien had been closing in on a key piece of information when he’d been murdered, the computer tech had spent the better part of the morning tracking down the files that the auditor had accessed immediately before his demise. Most of the files had been routine records of payments and ledger entries detailing where checks were sent and the date of endorsement – although the idea still rankled that the checks that had been intended for Miss Parker’s team, based on the faulty expense reports, had somehow ended up in the pockets of a number of smaller and lower-priority projects. Over the past hour, he’d collected digital renderings of all of the printed checks that SHOULD have gone back to Miss Parker – front and back. He’d even carefully verified that each check did indeed reimburse some of the fraudulent expenses credited against the Pretender Project Retrieval team – with the only problem being that the check reimbursed a department or project other than the Pretender Project.

And yet…

Something was tweaking on the edges of his awareness – a feeling that something was as conspicuously wrong as it was possible to be, and that he was totally missing it.

“Hey there!”

Broots jerked around and then sighed when he saw that the voice belonged to Sam. “Geez, you scared me out of three years’ growth!”

Sam looked tired. “You really need to work on your interpersonal skills, Broots,” he commented with a stifled yawn. “Miss Parker sent me down to see if you’d found anything yet.”

Broots turned back to his computer screen in frustration. “My problem is that I know I’m missing something here,” he waved his hand at the images of several check fronts and backs, “but I just can’t quite figure out…”

Sam leaned in. “You mean beside the fact that these checks were endorsed by the same person?”

Broots stared up into the burly sweeper’s face with a blank expression – and then stared at his computer screen. “Good God!” he exclaimed, flipping from one page of images to the next, “I think you’re onto something there. The names aren’t the same, but…”

“O come on!” Sam shook his head. “Look at the way the letters are formed. And that’s a fairly consistent slant. I’ll bet if you take this to cartography, they’ll tell you the same person wrote each one of those names.”

“I think you’re right. The question now is…” Broots quickly sent each of the pages of images to his printer, “…how the hell do we find out just who really signed them – and just where the money REALLY went?”

“We have signatures on file for each employee, don’t we?” Sam reminded the computer tech. “I suggest you take what you have down to the experts and have them help you sift through the mainframe and find the signature that matches the traits in these.”

Broots’ face was a study in frustration and reluctance. “Do you have any idea how LONG that’s going to take?”

Sam patted the slight man companionably on the shoulder. “Better get to it, then. And you’d better keep the information to yourself until you’re one hundred percent certain of your findings,” he warned as an afterthought. “If we’re right, O'Brien was killed because he may well have tripped over the exact same realization – and we don’t need to have you taken out the same way.”

Broots blanched. “Do you really think…”

The sweeper shook his head as he turned to leave. “You never know. Best to keep what you find to yourself – or maybe just share it with me until we have a more complete idea of what we’re dealing with here.”

The balding technician nodded vigorously. “I’ll call you when I have something solid.”

“Good.” 

Broots frowned as he made a quick command that printed each of the endorsements so that they could be simply scanned into the system as graphic entities for search purposes. Was Sam right – was he retracing the steps that had gotten Jerry O'Brien silenced? And if so, why had Sam first set his feet on the path only to issue a dire warning?

He glanced in the direction of the exit with disquiet. Things were still not as they should be with Sam – and the situation wasn’t getting any better. But who could he talk to…

Then he nodded. Sydney might be able to shed some light on the sweeper’s recent behavior patterns from a psychiatrist’s point of view. He’d have to ask the older man – maybe he’d take his lunch break and head to the Sim Lab instead of nurse-maiding the handwriting experts in their efforts. 

Feeling a little relieved, he reached for the phone and the booklet with the extensions of each of the myriad departments of the Centre. “This is Lazlo Broots for SIS, I’d like to make arrangements to have some handwriting samples checked against our database…”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

The wide broom in Jerry Fishbain’s hand slowed just a bit as he watched the parade of obviously African faces through the foyer of the facility halt and smile widely and shake hands with the person most likely to be the head of the place. His ears perked to listen heard one man introduced as “Ugo N’Deka” and the tall, thin, basketball-player-type standing just behind the first’s shoulder as “Solo Indala”. Yes, the man making the obsequious greetings was called “Evanston” – the name provided in the documents McKenna had given them as the head of the facility. He was even more innocuous and normal looking than the photo in the documents had portrayed him.

Fishbain let his attention drop away from the small knot of men that eventually found itself being shepherded in the direction of the elevators to note the position and number of surveillance cameras in the foyer. His observant gaze even took note of the one hidden strategically amid the leaves of a decorative plant. One by one he watched the cameras, quietly timing the amount of time that the red activation light on each was lit and in what order that activation was made. He smiled to himself at the simplicity of the pattern – and the general ease with which it would be possible for him to place his wireless taps into each line.

The morning was young, and yet he’d already had a chance to tap into the cameras in the parking garage, both elevators and the corridor that led to the administrative offices on the first floor. Each of the little taps had input and output capabilities – making it possible to both tape harmless loops from each of the cameras in question during activation times and then feed back that harmless footage when cover was needed. He’d also been taking quiet mental notes as to the number and placement of the security forces present – finding that the security at the facility was astonishingly light, considering the reputation the Centre had for securing a facility from unfriendly penetration. He lowered his gaze once more to his janitorial task for the time being, figuring that perhaps the Centre was depending upon the utter secrecy that surrounded this place’s mere existence to provide security. So few knew it actually existed in the first place, the threat was relatively small…

How foolish of them!

He steered the wide broom around the corner and toward the maintenance cart that was ostensibly his work station. All he had to do now was figure a way to gain access to the higher-security areas – those areas guarded by uniformed security men behind desks controlling the locks on the doors and even huskier Men-In-Black types whose critical gaze never stopped moving. 

The walkie-talkie on his shoulder sputtered into life. “Seabring, wet clean-up in area SL18 immediately!”

Fishbain reached up to the unit on his shoulder and pushed the broadcast button. “SL18 – yes sir!” he chimed efficiently, just as he’d heard other of his fellow janitors respond to similar calls since he’d arrived that morning. SL18 – that was one of the higher security areas designated as living quarters for the targets that he’d been hoping to penetrate; and once behind those restrictive doors, the chance of slipping into other areas to plant his little devices wouldn’t be so hard.

The catch-dust cover of the wide broom was quickly and easily removed and replaced before the broom itself was folded and inserted into its place on the cart. Fishbain took secure hold on the cart’s handle and maneuvered it toward the guard at the desk. “Wet cleanup on SL18,” he announced, handing over his identity card.

The guard slid the card through a reader and then nodded. “Proceed,” he answered in a bored voice, pushing a button that resulted in the automatic doors swinging open.

Fishbain restrained the satisfied grin as he pushed his cart through the gaping opening. This was as easy as taking candy from a baby, he thought as he began once more to pay very close attention to the placement of the cameras in the corridor. And this is FAR more like it!

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

“What?” Lyle stared at Willy.

“I said Mr. Raines wants to have a word with you,” the dark-skinned sweeper stated again, his voice only slightly sardonic. “Now.”

“What about?”

Willy shook his head. “I don’t ask questions, Mr. Lyle, about things that don’t concern me. Now – are you coming…”

Lyle snorted his frustration as his morning only continued to go downhill. He hadn’t heard from his detective all morning, the Vostov syndicate STILL hadn’t coughed up the money they owed him – and all efforts to contact his sister in case he could genuinely be of assistance to her had been rudely rebuffed. The absolute last thing he either needed or wanted was to once more be called on the carpet in the Tower – especially if his sister wasn’t going to get a similar ass-reaming. “I suppose I’ll get no peace until I go with you,” he snapped and turned off his computer terminal.

“Not really, sir,” Willy agreed without volunteering even the slightest sign of smugness that would rightfully earn him a reprimand. “I’m only doing as my superior asked of me.”

“Oh shut up and lead on,” Lyle growled and stood.

“After you, sir,” Willy gestured toward the office door.

Lyle knew the way to the elevator, and his posture easily exposed his pique. He was doing everything he was supposed to be doing and then some, he reasoned in a defensive reverie – all of what he’d been doing had been with the ultimate good of the Centre in mind. He sighed and pushed the up elevator button and raised a hand to rub disgustedly over his eyes and beneath his nose, thus not noticing that Willy had reached out and quickly pushed the cancel button and then the down button almost the moment his attention wandered.

The blue-grey of his eyes was snapping as he joined the two other sweepers in the elevator car. “You know, I’d get a whole lot more accomplished if your boss would give me a whole day’s peace,” he growled at Willy as the silver and wood veneered door slid closed.

“I’m sure,” Willy agreed, glancing over his shoulder and giving a faint nod. 

Before Lyle could even realize that the elevator was heading in the wrong direction, a set of arms whipped around him, pinning his arms so that he couldn’t struggle. Willy turned with an aerosol in hand, and Lyle’s eyes widened in surprise and fear. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he managed to bark even as the fine mist quickly put him to sleep.

“Taking care of the garbage,” Willy responded to the senseless man that now hung in the hold of the sweeper behind him. “Let’s get him down where he can be prepared for delivery,” he ordered his colleagues in a quiet voice. “Make sure to keep the hold tight – we don’t need him waking up and getting away.”

“No, sir,” the tall and husky blonde sweeper agreed, his hold on the limp, shorter man tightening significantly.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Emily read the screen in front of her and frowned. All in all, this Eire Foundation had a reputation for philanthropy and community service that was virtually unheard of in the corporate world. Like so many who were in similar businesses, the Foundation went out of its way to present a benign face to the American public – indeed, some of the nano-technological advances in the medical field were being pioneered right there in the labs in Philadelphia. The weapons research and development was a department of the whole that reportedly worked almost exclusively for the US government – not something that would normally raise eyebrows or cause suspicion.

And yet, her brother had insinuated himself into that organization for the same reason he inserted himself into any occupation or locale – in order to right some kind of wrong. So what was it he was crusading for this time? What was wrong with the Foundation?

She clicked on the back button until she was back at her initial search page – and then, remembering just how her elder brother often went about choosing his crusades, typed in yet another complex search string and hit enter. The list that presented itself this time was far different – a catalogue of news articles published both in the Philadelphia paper as well as other major US sources that dealt in some way or fashion with the Foundation.

“Hey, Russell!”

Emily swung around in her chair, startled, to find herself looking up into the face of her editor-in-chief, Ken Arnolds. “Yeah – what can I do for you, chief?”

“When am I going to get the latest installment of that story on Commissioner Fitzgerald’s misuse of city funds?”

Emily reached out and with a simple keystroke returned herself to her word processor. “Just taking a break and clearing my mind before putting the last touches on it, sir,” she assured her boss – indicating with an expansive sweep of the hand the impressive amount of writing on the topic that had already been composed. 

“I’m hoping to begin publishing the series next week,” Arnolds reminded his best community reporter. “So don’t take too long blowing out the cobwebs. I want the editorial team to see everything you’ve got at the next evening meeting.”

“I’ll have it ready for you, sir, I promise.”

Arnolds nodded, apparently satisfied with her answer. “See to it that you do,” he tossed over his shoulder as he turned away.

Emily waited until he was completely gone from the reporters’ pool before switching her computer back to the search engine and its list of news articles. She folded her hands in front of her face and stared at the long list of results. Jarod had been involved in this latest endeavor for about two weeks – which meant that he’d found whatever it was that had set him off roughly a week or so earlier than that.

She typed quickly, narrowing the search criteria even more – and hit enter. The number of items presenting themselves to her had diminished considerably. This was reading she could do at home later, she decided, and opened each page individually and sent them to her printer before closing them.

Somewhere, she just knew, was the answer she needed – an answer she knew she’d never get from her secretive brother. 

Finished, she closed down the web browser and brought back the word processor with the story she was writing after six weeks’ worth of investigation into the questionable actions of yet another Philadelphia public official. She moved her coffee cup from where it sat on her notes and, after thinking for a long moment, began typing again.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Lyle swam back to consciousness slowly; and as his senses returned, so a sense of dread grew within him – for he awoke to find himself bound tightly in a white canvas straitjacket and strapped securely to a gurney. Worse, he was alone in one of the featureless and dismal cell-spaces that were scattered throughout the Centre for prisoners, inmates and others needing to be secured.

He opened his mouth to yell, then realized that his throat was dry and his mouth parched – and the only sound he was able to make was stifled and diminished accordingly. 

His mind raced. Raines – he HAD to be behind this – but why?

Could his boss have found out about the Vostov fiasco? Surely Raines wouldn’t hold that one against him – after all, Raines himself had worked something virtually identical to this not all that long ago. And there was no way for anyone to know that the profit from the enterprise was destined for his own pocket – was there? No, he comforted himself, he’d been very careful there in setting up the deal. 

Hadn’t he?

It COULDN’T be about that prostitute in Baltimore – once more, he’d been very careful that nothing whatsoever could possibly lead authorities back to the Centre or him. And Raines must have known that his absolute prohibition on such activities again would be taken with the same amount of salt and disregard as Raines himself had taken the Triumvirate’s directive to shut down anything remotely resembling the Pretender Project. 

Perhaps it was RAINES who had something to hide – and taking him out was the only way to maintain control on the situation! Yes, Lyle congratulated himself, that HAD to be it!

But now what?

Lyle expanded his chest and tested the tightness of the straps holding him down, then huffed his disappointment. Between having his hands effectively tied down and hidden within the sleeves of the straitjacket and the thick leather of the straps on the gurney, he was helpless to escape or prevent whatever was planned for him from happening.

It was an ugly feeling to be on the other end of this kind of situation – he’d never ever really wanted to know exactly how his victims felt as they struggled against THEIR bonds and knew that there was no escape for them from his appetites. This was never supposed to happen to HIM! He was to be the power obliging THEM to face their mortality – to know that their existence was finite and soon to be ended. HE was the guide to the next world for other – and through their deaths, he gained immortality. At no time was another supposed to usher HIM to the brink of extinction. This was… sacrilege!

He disregarded his dry mouth and parched throat to roar his frustration, anger and promised revenge on any and all who had any part in turning him from an agent of power and destiny into a victim – to the empty cement walls of his current storage space. He was alone. No one could hear – wanted to hear – his cries or his roars. The roar transformed into a scream of utter horror as Lyle realized that nobody cared whether he roared, cried or whimpered – he really was that unimportant. His sister despised him, his father obviously plotted to be rid of him, his colleagues feared and loathed him – he had no friends except those he’d left behind long ago in Africa. 

When his energies were expended, he closed his eyes and swallowed hard. What WERE they going to do with him?

This wasn’t hanging in Lyle Bowman’s tool shed dreading the next beating – even in that world, he had at least mattered to someone. His pain had mattered. Administering pain TO him had demonstrated his worth. Bowman wouldn’t have spent the energy working up a good sweat beating the shit out of him if he was unimportant. Raines wouldn’t have made the journey to give Bowman pointers on more effective torture if he’d been unimportant to the Centre – would he?

No, this was torture of a different kind – a modern-day “Cask of Amantillado” scenario, only it was a metal door, cement blocks and leather straps on a gurney that had him isolated and walled in instead of the brick and mortar of Poe’s time. He could easily – SO easily – be just as forgotten and left to face his fate – his complete powerlessness – in utter silence and solitude.

Oh God…

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Sam rubbed his tired eyes for the fourth time in very few minutes after pausing the surveillance footage this time. He was tired – the lack of sleep from the night before and now the absolute boredom of watching the comings and goings of foot traffic in front of O'Brien’s office two days earlier was making it all too likely that he was going to miss something if he wasn’t careful. What was more, he’d have to find SOME time to slip in a couple of hours of nap before he took up his post outside Miss Parker’s again that night.

He’d toyed with the idea of bringing in another sweeper to spell him every other night – but as he’d been reviewing the list of sweepers who might be amenable to such an assignment, he suddenly realized anew that he didn’t know WHO was a mole. Without firm knowledge of just whom he could trust and whom he couldn’t, he simply COULDN’T afford to palm off half of the self-assigned task designed to keep Miss Parker safe without raising her suspicions any higher than the6y already were. No, he’d have to do the job himself.

“Sam? Did you hear me?”

“Huh?” Sam jerked and swiveled around, startling Broots. “What is it?”

Broots’ brows furled for a moment. “You OK?”

Sam waved his hand at the paused image in front of him. “I was just taking a break from that,” he explained lamely, not wanting to admit that he hadn’t even heard Broots call out to him the first time. This wasn’t good – how was he going to be able to keep this up, and how much had he missed from the surveillance footage? “I’m fine. What’s up?” he asked, pasting on a brighter expression than he felt.

Broots slipped into the chair next to the sweeper and sagged. “Well, I had the experts go through everything and try to discover who was endorsing all those checks… but…”

“But?” Sam was too tired to play the verbal games Broots tended to play. “You hit a wall, I take it?”

“Not really,” Broots sighed. “It just that what I DID find doesn’t make any sense.”

Sam’s brows folded into a solid line across his forehead. “What doesn’t make any sense?”

“The handwriting expert confirmed that one person endorsed all the checks – although there were signs indicating forgery. But, in the end, all the signatures were traced back to Jerry O'Brien’s handwriting…”

“What?” Sam woke up at that. “O'Brien himself signed them?”

“No – and that’s what doesn’t make sense.” Broots ran his hand over his nearly-bald pate. “It was a forgery all right – someone was forging O'Brien forging all these other signatures. It was a frame-up.” Broots sighed again. “And they couldn’t tell me whose signatures they really were – because they don’t match anybody in the Centre database.”

Sam’s face crinkled into disbelief. “What the Hell is going on here?”

Broots shook his head vehemently. “I don’t’ know – but this is getting stranger and stranger, I tell you…” He broke off as his eyes studied the image frozen on the screen in front of him. “What time was that taken?” he asked suddenly.

Sam looked down at the DSA display in front of him – since this was relatively raw footage, it hadn’t had the date-time stamped into the image itself yet. “About… four-forty-five. Why?” He looked back at the image and his mouth dropped open.

“What the heck is a sweeper doing entering an office in the middle of the work day with a weapon drawn?” Broots demanded, his right index finger pointing to the obvious shape in the man’s hand as he was pushing open the door.

Sam manipulated the controls of the DSA viewer to pull in on the face of the intruder, then pushed a button to send a copy of the close-up to the printer. “They’re in the sweeper corps too?” he muttered to himself angrily.

Broots blinked and looked into Sam’s face with surprise. “WHO is in the sweeper corps too?” he asked.

Sam mentally cursed himself for his verbal slip, and his mouth worked for a moment while his mind raced to manufacture a reasonable response. “I mean, whoever it is that is causing all this trouble has even got men in the sweeper corps – what did you think I meant?” he rounded on the computer tech, hoping that the defensive attitude needed to respond to the near-accusation he’d just tossed out would help cover the blunder.

“You know this guy?” Broots asked instead, looking just a bit closer at Miss Parker’s personal sweeper. Sam was looking ragged – as if he hadn’t been resting well lately. Here and Sam had thought to lecture HIM on his interpersonal skills?

Sam shook his head. “Nope,” he answered honestly, “but then again, I’m not involved in the sweeper recruitment or training programs anymore – so I have no reason to know each and every man we bring in.”

“Sam,” Broots tried again, this time with a gentle hand on Sam’s arm. “Are you SURE you’re OK? You look beat.”

The dark-haired sweeper sighed. “This is beginning to get to me,” he admitted, knowing that just a shade of the truth wouldn’t hurt under the circumstances. “It seems that every time we start to think we have an avenue to search and get some results, things just twist around even more. Instead of simple money-laundering, we find an outside forger forging the handwriting of someone who would have no business getting the checks in the first place. The man who starts to trace this down is murdered – and now Miss Parker’s little brother…”

“Something’s happened to Evan?” Broots demanded sharply. Maybe Sam was on edge for a reason after all.

“He was approached…” Sam sighed again and ran his hand over his face yet again to clear stubborn cobwebs. “I put a pair of sweepers on him, just in case…”

“Man!” Broots just shook his head. “So what are you going to do about him?” He jerked his nose at the monitor screen with the close-up of what was probably O'Brien’s murder.

Sam reached over and pulled the hardcopy of the close-up out of the printer. “Go through the sweeper corps database and find out just who the Hell this is – and then go have a VERY long talk with him,” he snapped tiredly. “Is there anything else you need?”

Broots shook his head. “Just wanted to bounce the information I got off of you,” he replied sympathetically. “Miss Parker…”

Sam shook his head. “Miss Parker doesn’t need to hear about the dead ends, Broots,” he declared as he rose and reached for his jacket. “She needs to hear about results. She’s got enough to worry about that she doesn’t need to hear about failure.” He shrugged the garment into place. “What else are you chasing down?”

Broots tried very hard not to frown. Miss Parker always wanted to know EVERYTHING that went on during an investigation she was involved in – even the failures and the brick walls that popped up along the way. Sam was telling him NOT to tell her – just like before – but why? Still, he’d been asked a question… “Uh…” He thought hard. “I’m still looking through the mainframe for the security check… trying to find any recent entries mentioning Jarod…”

“Why don’t you go back to that then,” Sam suggested in an urgent tone. “If Miss Parker needs to know what’s going on – or why you haven’t brought her news, I’ll tell her what you just told me.”

“OK…” Broots rose from his seat too – only not with any mind to head back to his cubby. “I’ll see you later, Sam.”

The computer technician knew he couldn’t keep his questions to himself anymore – something was seriously amiss with Sam. The time had definitely come to bounce ideas off of Sydney – of all of them, he was probably the most level-headed and logical. Not to mention Sydney had Miss Parker’s ear in a way that none of the others did.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

“What do you mean, that’s it?” an angry Walt Carrow demanded as he shook the paycheck he’d just been handed in Stan Bateman’s face. “I spend a year and a half learning all about how to be a Centre sweeper and get inside the organization only to take out one man and be booted out of a job?”

Bateman’s eyes narrowed. Removing loose ends for Mr. McKenna was part of his job – but it didn’t mean he didn’t enjoy it sometimes. Why was it that security men were always so dense? And here this guy was, out in the open in a park, shouting his complicity at the top of his lungs. Didn’t they teach muscle-men anything anymore besides how to hit and how to intimidate? “Look – your face is probably on their surveillance, and that means your ass is grass the next time you set foot inside the facility.”

“I was careful…”

“Not saying you weren’t,” Bateman shook his head. “But at this stage in the game, we can’t afford to take chances. You know too much about what is going on and what the goal is. This check is merely moving expenses – I’m supposed to tell you that you’re expected in Philadelphia a week from tomorrow, ready to go to work directly for the Foundation now.”

Slowly the anger evaporated from Carrow’s face. “Me? Work directly for the Eire Foundation?”

Bateman sighed. Yup, this one was definitely dense. “That’s what I said. Now go get that cashed and do whatever you have to to get your ass out of Blue Cove by the end of the day – hear me?”

Finally Carrow looked down at the long, narrow paper in his hand, and his eyes bulged to see the amount it represented. “Five thou… thanks!”

“Don’t mention it,” Bateman replied honestly and walked away in the direction of his pickup. 

Not that Carrow would have a chance to mention it. McKenna’s directives had been very clear and specific. All of the sub-contractors that had been put into play in this final stage of the takedown of the Centre were expendable – even HE, the second in command of Foundation security, was expendable if push came to shove. The only one in Delaware who wasn’t expendable was McKenna’s brother. 

Carrow would need to encounter some sort of tragedy within the next twelve hours, Bateman was certain, or he’d not have moved fast enough to put the Centre off the trail that would lead directly back to Philadelphia and his boss. Carrow had been good at his job – but now he was a liability.

Bateman sighed. Another body – now how was he going to handle THIS one? And how would the Centre handle finding out their murderer had himself been murdered?

He’d have to report to McKenna – after he cleaned up another loose end.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

The young man watched with very little expression in his dark chocolate eyes as the door on the other side of the room from him opened to admit Mr. Evanston and several strangers. One of the newcomers, a black man with a colorful woven drape thrown over his shoulder, seemed momentarily surprised at something, but composed himself quickly in order to take a seat at the wide table in the conference room. Another, a very tall and atheletic black man, seated himself at the older man’s elbow and immediately leaned forward to hear the whispered comments of his colleague. The other two arranged themselves on either side of the door.

So these were the people for whom he was going to have to work, the young man thought with a touch of curiosity that he kept carefully hidden. These were the people who had Joshua giving off signs of impatience and frustration as they had ended the last SIM prematurely the evening before. Joshua was virtually unflappable – he’d never seen the older man lose his temper once in all the years they’d been working together – so seeing Joshua anything but serene and in control had been eye-opening.

These men must be very powerful to have thrown his mentor for such a loop in such a short amount of time.

“What do they call you, son?” the older black gentleman asked in a very musical accent that told the young man of his African origins.

The young man couldn’t help noting the way the question had been posed. They didn’t ask his name, they asked what he was called – a huge difference.

“But everyone has a name, Joshua,” he’d insisted so many times that he could almost recite the exchange by heart – but couldn’t help but indulge himself one more time, just in case a name COULD be forthcoming.

“You don’t,” Joshua had replied with his expression the same neutrally serene that was virtually his trademark. “Your designation is Cancer – that’s all.”

“A designation isn’t a name,” he’d complained loudly – again following the set ritual.

“No, it isn’t,” Joshua had answered him the last time, “and bringing this subject up over and over again is beginning to be an obstacle. I can arrange for you to receive treatment…”

“NO!” He’d been instantly contrite. The last time he’d been sent to Renewal for “treatment” to counter rebellion and subordination, he’d promised himself that he’d never be sent back again. “I won’t ask again, Joshua – I promise!”

“See that you don’t,” his mentor had cautioned him sternly. “You are called Cancer – it is your designation. Don’t wish for more – you’ll only be disappointed in the end.”

“I’m called Cancer,” he replied in an even voice, and noted how Joshua, sitting next to him, nodded slightly in approval and agreement. He sighed inwardly – why COULDN’T he have a name like everyone else?

The older African gentleman frowned slightly, bent to whisper to the man who was evidently an associate or assistant, and then looked across the table again. “And have you been informed as to what you’re going to be doing for me, Cancer?”

“No, sir.” It was the simple truth – and he’d been told to tell the simple truth in as few words as necessary.

“We weren’t informed as to any of the particulars of the SIM you were going to ask Cancer to perform for you,” Joshua Kelly stated in more concise terms. “Mr. Evanston told me that you would have everything Cancer needs with you.”

The old African gentleman made a graceful gesture with his head – and his assistant lifted the briefcase that he’d carried into the room to the table surface. “Everything you need is in this,” he stated calmly, keeping his eyes on the face of the young man across the table from him. “I expect to be observing preparations when I return in the morning.”

Joshua reached out and pulled the briefcase to him. “I look forward to hearing your assessment of our work, sir.”

“Excuse me, sir...”

All eyes turned to the young man who had been trained from infancy not to address the adults in charge of him unless addressed first. Still, the African gentleman seemed not to take any offense. “Yes?”

“What are you called, sir?”

“Excuse me…”

The young man pressed on, heedless of the glare of fury from his mentor. “What do I call you, sir?”

“You don’t, my young friend,” the African answered gently and rose. “Until tomorrow, gentlemen.”

Joshua already had a very tight hold on his protégé’s upper arm, dragging him out of his chair and toward the door that led back to the SIM Lab and the residential area beyond. “What do you think you were doing?” the mentor hissed, not really wanting the cameras or microphones to pick up his chastising his charge. “Do you WANT to end up in Renewal for treatment after all?”

“But I just wanted to know…”

“I just hope this isn’t a sign that you’re beginning to fail as a Pretender,” Joshua whispered into his ear in a furious tone. “You remember what I told you happened to Gemini when that happened to HIM, don’t you – and what happened to the original Pretender himself?”

The young man blanched and faltered in his step slightly. The failure of the project designation before him had been related to him in very clear terms during his last stay in Renewal – how the renewal team assigned here had needed to wash the mind so completely that Gemini was no longer even considered a viable product. The description of the termination of the young man at an age not so very far removed from his own had been given in clinical terms that left no doubt as to what his own fate could be under similar circumstances. The tale of Jarod, however, had been one of the first “bedtime stories” that he could remember – how the Pretender had been forcibly removed from the protective shelter of the Centre and his mentor, and had been subsequently contaminated by nonessential experience that had ruined HIM for SIMs too. Jarod’s fate had always been left in terms of a vague threat of you really DON’T want to know what happened to him – we won’t allow you to be contaminated in the same way that had given him nightmares for weeks afterwards. “I’m not…”

“You’d better not,” Joshua growled and pushed the young man through the door being held open by a sweeper. “You have the evening to think through your errors today – I’ll be bringing you out an hour early so that we can discuss this and put it behind us. Is that understood?”

“Yes, sir.” Cancer stood in the middle of the small space that was all he could call his – not that he owned it, only that he was returned to it day after day, night after night – and tried not to be affected by the sheer anger in his mentor’s gaze. 

Was that what it took to make Joshua angry – to break the rules in front of strangers?

Then, suddenly, Mr. Evanston was in Joshua’s face. “What was that display?” the usually mild-mannered administrator demanded.

“We’ve been having a touch of independent thought,” Joshua hastened to explain, a glare keeping his protégé from answering for himself. “It won’t happen again, sir.”

Evanston shot the both of them warning glares of his own over his shoulder as he walked back to where the small knot of Africans was waiting, and Joshua slammed the metal door harder than necessary to shut his charge into his space for the night.

This was an inauspicious start of the most important SIM of Cancer’s career.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

“Well?”

Fishbain remained silent until he’d sat down and sprawled in the one easy chair that Chuck Seabring had placed in his livingroom. “All the taps were placed – and I located both our targets.”

Delgado let out a long breath that he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. “Assessment?”

“Thanks,” Fishbain looked up at Langer as the man handed him down a glass of water. “Well…” He sat forward. “Security isn’t lax, by any stretch, but it isn’t as tight as it could be either. Security is generally fixed – there are only a few security personnel that move around, generally attached to specific people. Surveillance isn’t omnipresent – there are plenty of blind spots to the cameras that we might be able to take advantage of.”

“Did you have any problem getting into any of the higher security areas?” Langer asked, propping himself against the wall near the archway into the dining area.

Fishbain shook his head, his lower lip protruding to show his surprise. “The janitorial staff floats all over the building all day – there’s a set routine, but calls for extra clean up happen all the time. I’d say that this works out for us too…” He turned to Delgado. “If you want to place a couple of very small devices – enough to make a plumbing mess in areas we want access to when it comes to Crunch Time – it should make matters a lot easier.”

Delgado nodded slowly, turning over the information in his mind. “I like that,” he said finally. “What about the targets themselves? Guarded?”

“It depends on the time of day,” Fishbain answered easily after taking a long draught of his water that drained the glass. “They keep these boys pretty tightly controlled – about the only time they’re left alone is when they’ve been “put to bed,” as it were.”

“And you know where those rooms are?” Delgado demanded.

“One of them,” Fishbain replied quickly. “But I’d imagine that while you’re spending your several days there, you’ll get a chance to see where they keep the other one.” He shrugged. “There’s several boys there – I seen at least four over the course of the day.”

“Wonderful!” Langer snarled. “How…”

“You heard the man,” Delgado snapped in order to bring his man to attention again. “We take the oldest two – and to Hell with the others. Fish knows where one of them is kept – and the more I think of it, the more I like moving during the nighttime…”

“But there’s not much in the way of janitorial staff on hand during the night,” Langer protested. “We’ll stand out – cause talk when we show up…”

“Only if we all show up at the same time,” Delgado began to smile. “On Crunch Day, we’ll each show up at different times – and not sign out again.”

“You starting to put a plan together?” Fishbain asked curiously.

Delgado just raised his eyebrows at his computer expert. “Hey Langer!” he yelled instead. “It’s your turn to go for burgers…”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Broots watched his old friend and colleague’s face closely. “So what do you think, Sydney?”

The silver-hair psychiatrist steepled his fingers in front of his mouth and took a long time parsing the information and impressions that Broots had just dumped into his lap. He was inclined to agree with his colleague that something was amiss with Sam – the question was WHAT?

“It’s entirely possible that Sam is beginning to feel the strain of his position,” he offered slowly, lifting his face from the steepled fingers. “After all, Mr. Raines did threaten ALL of us with transportation to Africa and certain tragedy if we didn’t…”

“But that isn’t like Sam,” Broots complained, shaking his head vehemently. “I’ve seen him under pressure before – he doesn’t get this flakey…”

“Do either of us REALLY understand what goes on with Sam?” Sydney asked, his question more honest than rhetorical. “He stays in closer contact with Miss Parker than either of us do anymore – it’s possible that he’s seen or heard things that would curl our hair…” He eyed Broots’ bald pate. “…proverbially, of course…”

“No, I know that,” Broots sighed. How to explain himself more clearly? “He’s also acting like he’s not getting enough rest. I found him literally in a daze, studying those surveillance disks that Miss Parker wanted him to go through – and he’d virtually missed noticing the man getting ready to go into O'Brien’s office…”

The silver brows rose finally. “That IS unusual. Sam is one of the best the Centre has – for him to miss something that important…”

“NOW you see why I’m so concerned…” Broots sighed in relief this time.

“Yes…” Sydney folded his hands and put them in his lap to look evenly at his colleague. “The question now is what you think we should do with our concerns and observations. Tell Miss Parker?”

Broots shook his head. “I wouldn’t do that to Sam,” he declared. “He may only be muscle, but he’s been as loyal to Miss Parker as either of us – and has saved her skin plenty of times.”

“If not that, then what?” 

Brilliant blue orbs raised their gaze to the psychiatrist in open hope. “Maybe you could talk to him…”

Again Sydney seemed to pause and reflect on Broots’ words. “I suppose I could…”

“When?”

Sydney frowned. “Are you that worried that I should try to talk to him immediately – or do you think we could wait and see if this is just a temporary situation…”

Broots opened his eyes wide and threw out his hands. “How should I know? Things are not exactly the safest for any of us right now, you know… with O'Brien dead, the stranger who approached Evan, the fraud concerning our project’s expenses, Mr. Raines’ threat…”

Sydney put up a defensive hand. “OK! OK! You made your point.” He sighed. “I’ll see if I can find him to talk to him sometime before day’s end today or first thing in the morning.” He gazed indulgently at his friend. “Will that satisfy you?”

Broots heaved a huge sigh of relief. “Thanks, Sydney. I owe you one.” The technician heaved himself to his feet. “I’d better get back to the mainframe douching I’m supposed to be doing while everything else is falling apart…” 

Sydney shook his head. Broots had good reason to be concerned – however, the urgency with which Broots felt the situation was imbued was his own. Finding Sam at this late hour of the workday wasn’t very likely – especially considering all the tasks that the sweeper was handling for his boss. He’d have to catch the man tomorrow morning, when all of them were a helluva lot fresher.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Lyle’s fear had hit a fever pitch when the injection administered to him just before he was loaded into the back seat of the Centre sedan had paralyzed him without rendering him unconscious. Without any way to defend himself – or even to question Willy, who was driving the car, or Mr. Raines sitting beside him wheezing noisily every other breath or so – his mind had spun out of control, trying to understand what was happening.

Lyle could see enough through the tinted windows of the sedan from where he was slumped against the back seat cushion that he knew they were driving north. As the hours melted into each other and eventually a familiar skyline appeared ahead, he realized that they were heading into New York. It’s the Vostovs, he reasoned at first – they’d voiced their issues with him to Mr. Raines, and he was going to be sent to Renewal after he observed his boss fixing his mess. No, on second thought, dealing with the Vostov organization would have had Raines surrounded with bodyguards. 

This was something else again – and for the life of him, he couldn’t figure out what. Who would they be traveling to New York to see – and why was it necessary to have HIM trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey ready for the freezer?

The sedan threaded its way through the city streets as the sky darkened – and finally headed toward the harbor district as nighttime settled on the city. 

Lyle’s butt felt like it had been nailed to the seat and been crushed, and his bladder was nearly bursting, when the car made a turn and steered its way past the huge building that had lettering on the front that designated it as Pier 18. There was a tingling in his fingers and toes – and if he concentrated hard enough, he could just begin to move them to relieve the cramped muscles a little.

“Nine o’clock, sir,” Willy announced over his shoulder.

“Park it here – and we’ll wait,” Raines stated flatly and pulled hard on the oxygen. 

Lyle felt his fear surge a little more – they were meeting someone, he just knew it! But who?

Then there were headlights shining into the sedan from the front – headlights that flickered once and then turned off in favor of fog lamps. Willy fiddled with the controls on the panel – probably turning his lights down in much the same manner – and then opened the door and moved from the driver’s seat to open the door for Mr. Raines. Last but not least, he opened the door and hauled Lyle out with a tight arm keeping him from crumpling like a boneless mess onto the asphalt of the pier.

“Wait for me,” Raines dictated and stepped forward, his oxygen cart squeaking along with him.

Lyle’s head still lolled, but he could see well enough to notice that two men rose from the car ahead of them and stepped out to meet Raines. There was a short conversation, and then a briefcase was handed to the oxygen-starved Chairman of the Centre. What the Hell…?

“Willy!” Raines waved his hand.

“Time to go, Slick,” Willy said with a soft snicker, and he pulled and dragged Lyle along until he stood next to Mr. Raines and … Tommy Tanaka. If it hadn’t been for the drug in his system, Lyle’s eyes would have widened in real shock and consternation – these were NOT men he wanted to spend any time with!

“As promised,” Raines wheezed triumphantly, “alive but not exactly in the best of shape. Certainly manageable at the moment, however…”

Tanaka uttered a quick order in gutteral Japanese, and the trunk of the sedan flew open. Lyle had no time to even register a grunt of protest before two burly and powerful Japanese had him by each arm, dragged him to the trunk and unceremoniously tossed him in like a sack of potatoes. The trunk lid slammed shut even before Lyle had a chance to grunt in pain when the jack pressed painfully into his hip.

“Our business is concluded, Raines-san,” Lyle could hear as Aoki Toshiro translated the brusque statement of his boss. “Have a pleasant trip back to Blue Cove.”

They were leaving him in the hands of the Yakuza? But… The Yakuza had been seriously unhappy with him ever since the prison yard stabbing that had killed Tanaka’s father a year earlier – and only a virtual armed truce had kept them from capturing him and taking their vengeance. 

Lyle swallowed hard and understood, at last, that he truly was a dead man.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Nathaniel Cox hurried around the end of the car and opened the door for his passenger. “Now you remember where you’re going?”

Zoë looked around her, seeing the Greyhound logo illuminated on the building across the street from the car. “I’m getting back on a bus and heading to my grandmother’s house.” She looked at Cox with eager expectation. “Right?”

“Exactly right, my dear,” he smiled at her. “You have the money?”

“Yes,” she answered with an almost bland expression on her face. “And I have the gun…”

“Let’s just keep the gun under wraps, shall we?” Cox patted her on the forearm companionably. “There will come a time when you’ll need it, but that time is not yet. Do you remember your other instructions?”

“I’m to call you when Jarod gets in touch with me,” Zoë repeated expressionlessly.

“Exactly. You do not go anywhere to meet him without calling me first, is that understood? After all, YOU decide who lives and dies…”

“I decide…” the redhead repeated, her eyes growing blank. “I decide…”

“Good girl.” Cox snapped his fingers, bringing the woman out of the slight trance that the trigger words were guaranteed to produce. “Get your suitcase then…”

Zoë nodded obediently and opened the back door of the sedan and pulled the nondescript black canvas bag out. “Got it,” she stated quickly.

Cox pulled a paper folder from his breast pocket and held it out to her. “And here is your bus ticket. You will remain on the bus until you get to Atlanta, and then make the transfer to Birmingham and stay on that bus until you reach your destination. You have enough food packed with you to last you – and you will NOT want to talk to strangers.”

“I won’t talk to strangers,” Zoë repeated.

“I’ll be looking forward to your call,” Cox told her gently, reaching out and almost touching the fair cheek with the back of his fingers but pulling back suddenly. “Enjoy your trip.”

“Call when I hear from Jarod,” Zoë murmured to herself as she looked both ways before crossing the street to the bus station. “I decide who lives and dies…”

Cox watched his latest project pull open the glass door and walk inside the building before he finally climbed back into his car. It was done now – he’d rushed the project as much as he’d dared, and now he’d turned her loose, with instructions to call for further instructions the moment that the elusive Pretender made contact with her. Then and only then would he know whether his new process to create assassins from ordinary people would be successful – with Zoë and Jarod being literally an acid test for the process. 

With a sigh, he pulled his cell phone from his pocket and pushed a programmed number and waited for the emphysemic wheeze of, “Raines…”

“She’s been released – and is on her way to the holding grounds until Jarod gets in contact with her.” 

“You’re SURE that she’ll call you when Jarod gets in touch…?”

Cox rubbed his eyes. It had been a long day getting his subject ready for release – and he was ready to rest in his own bed in his own apartment like a normal human being for the first time in days. The last thing he wanted to be doing was to rehash old debate points. “I told you that the process was untested – but theoretically, yes. I’ve planted the drive to call very deep in her subconscious, and made it an imperative. She won’t rest until she calls me.”

“And then?”

“You want Jarod out of the picture, don’t you?” Cox asked in frustration. “I just spent the last few days drilling her on gun usage and accuracy.”

“Then Jarod’s as good as dead?”

“It may not be immediate, but I’d say that his days will have become numbered the next time he decides to put in a call to his sweetheart.”

“Good.” Raines wheezed noisily. “I want a complete report on your project to date, and updates as they become available. If this works, we may just have found another way to keep us all fed and housed for a while.” 

Cox wasn’t fooled. If his process worked, they all would be very rich very quickly. It was for that purpose that he’d started the research all those years before. “Yes, sir,” he choked on the honorific. “I’ll let you know the moment I know anything new.”

There was a click on the other end, indicating that Raines had terminated the call. As was usual when dealing with Raines, Cox was ready to kill something – anything. As his attention was drawn to the huge, blue bus slowly moving away from the depot – and wondering if his project were safely aboard it – he began to smile.

His latest taxidermy project had been kept on hold pending his finishing his work with the assassin – and now he was free to begin to choose a pose and backdrop for the skunk he’d found a few weeks earlier on the road to work. Wouldn’t it be just fitting if he styled the skunk into a two-legged stance with a miniaturized oxygen tank and cannula draped over the ears and in the nostrils? 

Of course, he’d have to make sure nobody – absolutely NObody – ever saw the finished work, in case word of his silent slam of his employer got back to the Tower and precipitated the kind of response he knew he’d regret greatly. It would work to his advantage, then, that so many diligently tried to ignore the hobby in which he indulged in his subterranean lair. But he’d have his fun, satirizing his boss – taking a mild form of revenge for the lost sleep and the upset stomach that had come from rushing his research into this final testing phase too quickly.

Satisfied that he knew where he was going and what he was going to do, Cox turned the key in the ignition and nosed the sedan back out into traffic – turning eventually onto the highway that would bring him away from Dover and back in the direction of Blue Cove.


	8. Ten, Nine, Eight...

Sydney rarely ventured down near where the sweeper corps of the Centre kept its locker room, gymnasium, weight room and lounge – a bastion of physical prowess and intimidation – but he made an exception that morning. He got more than a few hard stares for his trouble – he definitely looked as out of place as he felt. But his patience and persistence paid off when he saw Sam striding through the lounge door and heading directly for the pot of sludge that the sweepers were calling coffee. He waited, watching the dark haired man look for a long moment at the rack of assorted ceramic mugs for his own and then pour himself a cup of coffee with a long yawn.

Broots was right – Sam didn’t look as if he were getting much rest at all. In fact, if Sydney didn’t know better, he’d have sworn that Sam had slept in his suit all night. The dark hair was less than impeccably groomed – and the morning shadow of a day’s growth of stubble was unmistakable. Sam took a long sip of the coffee with closed eyes, and then drooped into a nearby chair without even noticing that there was someone watching him that was definitely out of place.

Sydney had seen enough. If things were as precarious as Broots claimed Sam said, then it was in Miss Parker’s best interest for him to get to the bottom of things. He rose to his feet and tried not to draw too much more attention to himself as he moved over to across the table from Sam – who still hadn’t noticed him yet. “Sam?” he asked softly, “do you think we could go somewhere private?”

Sam’s eyes, when they lifted in surprise to gaze at Sydney, were red-rimmed. “Sydney? What the hell…”

“I need to talk to you – and I’d rather do it where we don’t have an audience…” Sydney looked around pointedly.

Sam took a moment to get the hint and then looked around himself as well – only then noting the number of fellow sweepers doing their best to look unconcerned while keeping an ear twitching in their direction. “Yeah, sure,” he growled and forced himself out of his chair. “Follow me.”

Sam led Sydney through the lounge door and down a corridor until they were suddenly at a doorway to the outdoors – where several benches and a few picnic tables sat virtually abandoned in the early morning chill. “How’s this for you?” Sam asked gesturing at the closest picnic table.

“Fine.” Sydney followed Sam and seated himself only after the sweeper had once more dropped his tall frame onto the seat like a sack of potatoes. “Broots came to talk to me…”

“Oh?” Sam frowned in confusion. “Did he find something else?”

“He told me what he told you,” Sydney explained quickly, “but his main concern was you.”

That seemed to awaken Sam more than anything else had that morning. “ME?!”

“And I share his concerns, now that I’ve had an opportunity to observe what it was that Broots worried to me about…”

“There’s nothing wrong with me…” Sam protested loudly, then looked about himself sheepishly to make sure nobody had been eavesdropping on them. “I’m fine!” he reasserted forcefully, if more quietly.

Sydney shook his head and gave the sweeper as sympathetic smile. “Have you looked at yourself in a mirror lately, Sam?”

“What the hell is THAT supposed to mean?”

“It means,” Sydney sighed – he’d hoped Sam would make this just a little easier for the both of them, “that you have dark circles under your eyes that tell me you haven’t been getting enough sleep for several days now at the very least. You look as if you slept in your clothing, your hair isn’t combed and you haven’t shaved yet today. In a word, you look like hell.”

“Thanks a lot…”

“Then there’s your observed behavior,” Sydney continued, carefully modulating his voice into a calm and neutral observer’s voice. “According to Broots, you’ve become jumpy and tending to either try to take on more than your usual workload or avoid tasks that have been assigned.”

“I’m good at what I do,” Sam complained bitterly.

“Yes, under normal circumstances, you are,” Sydney agreed readily, “which is why Broots was worried and why I decided to speak to you this morning – to give you a chance to explain. So…” He leaned forward. “What’s going on, Sam?”

“Nothing!”

“If that’s true, then I’m going to need to take Broots’ and my concerns to Miss Parker,” Sydney responded in a quiet, non-threatening voice. “In my opinion, your physical state of exhaustion and related abnormal behavior means that you’re in no shape to be a capable bodyguard, much less the point man on some of the investigative…”

Sam was bristling now. “Wait just a minute…”

“But if you tell me what it is that has you so off-balance,” Sydney cajoled gently, “perhaps I can be of some assistance – not to mention find a reason not to speak to Miss Parker.”

Sam glared at the old Belgian, who simply gazed at him sympathetically and steadily until the sweeper could no longer hold the gaze. “There’s nothing you can do,” Sam muttered finally.

“Perhaps not, but I think sharing your worries might at least lighten your load some,” the psychiatrist countered firmly.

Sam closed his eyes and took another long draught of his rapidly cooling coffee – then opened his eyes and grimaced at the bitter taste. “All right, all right! I heard something, OK?” he offered at long last.

“What did you hear? Where? When?”

Suddenly the sweeper was leaning across the table at Sydney, his gaze almost wild. “You have to promise me you won’t spill a word of what I’m going to tell you to Miss Parker!”

“Sam!” Sydney frowned in reproach. “That depends entirely on what it is that you have to tell me, don’t you think?”

“Promise me!”

The psychiatrist could see he wasn’t going to get much further without offering Sam at least a few concessions. “I promise, if you can give me adequate reasons, that I won’t share what you tell me with Miss Parker.”

Sam seemed to collapse back on himself. “It was at the anniversary party.”

“OK,” Sydney nodded encouragingly. “That takes care of where and when…”

Sam sighed and rubbed his hand down his face – noting with dismay that Sydney’s assessment of his physical state was probably right on, considering the scratchy state of his face and its more-than-five-o’clock shadow. He HADN’T stopped at home to shave or change because the time had slipped by so quickly that he barely had made it in on time as it was. “I never saw WHO it was that was talking – but I got an earful without they’re knowing that I was there…”

“What did they say?” Sydney was beginning to get frustrated at the delay – it was as if Sam had suddenly taken a page from Broots’ play-book of talking all the way around an important bit of information without saying anything pertinent, a trait that got the computer tech yelled at regularly by Miss Parker.

“Something bad’s coming down – and according to what I heard, the intent is to take the Centre down completely.”

Sydney frowned. “That’s impossible!”

Sam merely shook his head. “Whoever it was that was speaking pointed out Miss Parker as the most likely obstacle to whatever their plans were – and the one guy said that he was ready to take her out completely should she start to dig in the wrong place…”

“Take her out? You mean…”

“They were pretty clear on what they meant,” Sam nodded soberly. “So I’ve been trying to make sure that she doesn’t get too steamed… doesn’t keep turning over too many rocks that I can’t be sure won’t be the last straw…”

“And not sleeping?” Sydney asked astutely.

Sam sighed and nodded. “I just had this hunch, after little Evan was approached, that her home isn’t exactly the most secure, so I’ve been…”

Sydney suddenly understood. “You’ve been staking her place out during the evening hours – after putting in a full day here.”

“Yeah.” The sigh was long and spoke of a deep exhaustion.

“While otherwise you did the digging and tried not to trigger any alarms…”

“Which has gotten pretty hard, considering O'Brien’s murder and the circumstances we’ve uncovered so far about the expenses fiasco…”

Sydney frowned. “You think O'Brien was killed over what he’d uncovered about that?”

“I can’t be sure – and if whoever it is that’s making a move on the Centre is nervous enough to approach Evan in order to get her attention away from what she’s doing here, then we must be looking in the right direction. I just don’t want anything to happen…” He swallowed hard, and then glared at Sydney. “So? Will you keep quiet?”

It was now Sydney’s turn to wipe his hand over his mouth and chin. “I don’t want any harm to come to Miss Parker either…”

“Then she can’t know…”

“She has to.” Sydney countered somberly – wishing he didn’t have to. “She deserves to know what’s at stake – it’s her life, after all.”

“But it will only make things worse – YOU know that!” Sam flung his hands wide. “How can I protect her if she’s going all-out to race these people to try to catch them before they bring the Centre down?”

“Sam! Think, man!” Sydney answered with a quiet vehemence that drew the tired sweeper’s attention quickly. “You need her assisting in her own defense – not blundering blindly about. We’ve already had them contact her through Evan – so your plan to keep her safe through ignorance isn’t working anymore. Not to mention that you’re in no sshape to guard her at all anymore – Broots caught you staring at a monitor picture of the sweeper who probably killed O'Brien without even seeing it…”

Sam had the grace to look chagrined. “He told you about that, eh?”

Grey brows rose. “Like I said, he was worried.”

Sam shook his head and drooped for a bit, playing with his coffee mug rather than face the earnest concern of his colleague and, apparently, friend. When he looked up again, his desperation was clear in his bearing and tone of voice. “Telling her is going to be like waving a red flag in front of a bull, Sydney. She’s already pissed at Raines for putting the screws to her about this expense account crap, and now the auditor has been murdered right under her nose. She’s understandably jumpy because of what happened to Evan, and she’s never a happy camper when she’s in the middle of one of these damned security overhauls. If she thinks that by getting to the bottom of this, she can head off a train-wreck, she’s gonna go for it as hard and as fast as she can – damn the torpedoes, full speed ahead.”

Sydney sighed – Sam had a legitimate point. And if the threat to Miss Parker was even more pressing than the one to the Centre, then helping to sidetrack her would, under normal circumstances, be a logical defensive move that might buy them the time they needed to minimize the destruction that was inevitable. “It isn’t just me you’ll have to convince, you know,” he told Sam after a long and pregnant silence. “Broots will need to be brought into the loop – so he doesn’t take it into his head to tell her after the two of us decide to stonewall until we have more information to go on…”

“So we get Broots to keep his yap shut,” Sam tossed out callously. “That shouldn’t be too hard. I’m betting he still has enough of a crush on Miss Parker to be open to convincing…”

Sydney smiled suddenly. “You noticed that, did you?”

Sam puffed out a short burst of air and nodded indulgently. “The little nerd can’t hide his emotions for beans, Doc.”

“I’m going to regret this,” Sydney sighed and then finally nodded. “All right, Sam – we’ll play this your way for the time being.” Sam’s grin of relief was almost painful. “BUT with a few modifications – or the deal’s off and I tell her what’s going on the moment I leave you.”

“Sydney…”

“One,” Sydney continued, putting up a forefinger, “you and I will make a schedule for keeping watch on Miss Parker’s – so NEITHER of us ends up looking like we just climbed out of bed and can’t concentrate. Two…” The next finger went up. “…we tell Broots what’s going on and get him to help on all fronts – including keeping Miss Parker nicely distracted from things that might get her killed…”

“NOW you’re talking!” Sam nodded. “Done and done. So…” He took a long and disgusting pull from his now-tepid coffee. “…you gonna take watch for me tonight - right?”

Sydney leaned his chin into his hand after nodding wordlessly. Somehow he doubted that they’d be given the leeway to continue in his form of insanity for long before Miss Parker WOULD have to be told. And by that time, his complicity would be great enough that the burden of admission would most likely land on HIS shoulders – further straining Miss Parker’s trust in him.

But if it kept her alive and safe, the inconvenience and the emotional consequences would be worth it. He’d just never thought keeping his promise to Catherine to keep her little girl safe would have come down to THIS!

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Jake McKenna watched the middle-aged African woman move gracefully across the rich, cream-colored carpet of his office and settle comfortably into the leather easy chair he’d had his aide position in front of his desk. He waited for just a bit longer so that his assistant could place a coffee cup at Mrs. Mutumbo’s elbow on the little end table and then make a show of leaving a fresh carafe of the brew on the corner of his desk before speaking. “So,” he began with an inviting smile, “did you enjoy your tour yesterday?”

“I did, Mr. McKenna,” Lula answered immediately, “although some of what I saw brought up more questions than were answered.”

McKenna nodded. “I’m not surprised.”

“And I am wondering,” she continued, allowing her musical accent to weave an aura of confidentiality and cooperation, “whether I will be allowed some of those answers today.”

“That depends,” McKenna told her honestly, “on the questions.”

“Well,” Lula began, “for one… I suppose I’d like to know just what differentiates your Foundation from other similar firms – firms like The Centre?”

McKenna sniffed derisively. “Financial stability is the most obvious difference between the Foundation and The Centre. We don’t over-extend…”

“The Centre has been financially sound for decades,” Lula stated haughtily, defending the official Triumvirate line.

“It’s been sound only because your consortium has been picking up the tab for decades,” McKenna fired back. “My Foundation hasn’t needed to depend on anybody else for either project funding or to sell its products and research for us.”

“And yet you were interested in talking to me when I approached you,” Lula reminded him archly. “You are not so sound that having a serious investor would be unwelcome, however.”

“No TRUE businessman is going to turn down the offer of a substantial capital investment in his business,” McKenna chuckled, granting the point to her. “Your consortium has quite a… reputation… for its assistance. Of course I’m not going to sneeze at a chance to experience some of that largesse firsthand.” His smile grew predatory. “And knowing that the Centre’s financial woes are only destined to grow larger would seem to make moving investments from a failing enterprise to a more healthy one a logic choice for YOU.”

Lula’s eyes bore holes into his. “What makes you think that the Centre is going to get into a worse financial position?”

McKenna wiggled his forefinger at her and settled back into his comfortable desk chair with his coffee mug in hand. “Ah, ah, ah... I’m not giving away my sources of information. So ignore the free tidbit of information, if you wish…” He took a long sip of coffee and seemed to come to a decision. “Time to lay our cards on the table. you’ve seen the facilities – gotten a taste of what we do and how we do it – so do you want to invest money with my firm – or no?”

The woman’s eyes widened. “It isn’t that simple, Mr. McKenna…”

“Actually, Mrs. Mutumbo, it IS,” he declared frankly. “Either you like what you saw yesterday, in which case this meeting should be and will become an ironing out some of the major details of our new business relationship – or you were disappointed in what you saw and by withholding your decision, you are wasting both my time and yours.”

Lula had to admire the simple audacity of the Foundation’s Chairman. Ultimately he was right – it all boiled down to whether or not she had seen enough to assure herself that investing with his firm was what she wanted to do. “Let’s say for argument’s sake that I’m inclined to want to invest heavily in your firm,” she admitted in a very neutral voice. “It’s your turn to be frank - what would the Triumvirate be getting for its money?”

McKenna’s lower lip protruded for a moment, and then he smiled. “Inside information on on-going projects that promise high yield profits – and for those projects whose funding comes primarily from your consortium, a percentage of any and all profits made from those projects. Personnel and resources to carry out projects originating from within your consortium can be put at your disposal at a vast discount.”

“How much authority will we be given over Foundation personnel?”

“As much as I deem proper in any particular situation,” was the prompt reply. “But at no time will the Triumvirate be in a position to overrule ME. It will be free to withdraw its investment, but it will never be in control here.”

“How much right will we have to inquire into the nature of Foundation policies and activities?”

“Again, you will be told as much as I deem is reasonable to give to any investor. Mrs. Mutumbo,” McKenna said with slightly narrowed eyes, “ there is no way in Hell that you’re going to exert the same kind of influence on the Foundation as you have at the Centre – mostly because you’ll never be put in a position where you’ll feel it necessary. We do not make it a policy to become over-extended fiscally – nor do we indulge in highly risky and questionable projects. Our projects have proven money-generating potential from the very beginning, and so even failure results in the kind of research that can be sold to firm following similar lines of inquiry.”

“That sounds so very high-minded, Mr. McKenna – but you’d have to admit that The Centre operated in very much the same way until only very recently…”

“Nonsense.” McKenna’s voice was flat and almost adversarial. “The Centre under Charles Parker began having its expenses outrun its income more than forty years ago – a cost overrun that has only gotten worse and worse, especially in the last twenty years or so. The only thing that has kept it afloat for years is the fact that your consortium hasn’t figured out that it is a sinking ship yet and keeps bailing it out.”

Lula rose to her feet quickly. Although Jake McKenna wasn’t saying anything that she hadn’t said in closed Council session, to hear it thrown AT her in such a fashion was insulting. “If you wish to spend your time insulting The Centre and, by insinuation, the Triumvirate, then perhaps I AM wasting my time and yours…”

McKenna was on his feet in a flash, hand outstretched. “I’m sorry. When the subject of the Centre arises, my mood always tanks. Please…” He waited.

Slowly Lula allowed the appearance of rethinking her decision to leave, and she finally sank back into her chair and reached for her coffee cup. “Then let us get down to business, Mr. McKenna.”

McKenna sat down as well, a cat-swallowing-the-canary smile on his face. “Does that mean that you intend to establish a working relationship between the Foundation and the Triumvirate?”

“I will have to run my findings past our Council – and the decision to invest more than just a few million must be unanimous – but at the moment, I’m inclined to say that we sit on the cusp of a very profitable relationship.”

“I’m so glad you agree!” McKenna quipped as he picked up the phone and punched the button that summoned his secretary. “Bring in the latest expense ledger – and an income statement for the same amount of time, Cheryl. Make that two copies of each, please.” He reached out for his coffee cup as well and raised it. “A toast, Mrs. Mutumbo – to our new partnership.”

“Indeed!” Lula raised her cup, smiling contentedly both outwardly and inwardly. Despite the fact that she was getting a whole lot less deference than thirty years’ worth of experience with the Centre had made the Triumvirate accustomed to, she liked Jake McKenna. He was as hard-nosed and independent as they came – and as willing to throw the whole deal into the trash if it didn’t suit his fancy as she was. In him she saw a kindred spirit – one who had clawed his way to where he was now, and who would do anything to keep that upward movement going.

The Centre and the Eire Foundation – they were two very different corporate entities indeed. Chances were that if this latest boondoggle with the Centre turned out to be nothing but smoke and mirrors, her nailing down an extremely profitable connection with the Foundation would keep the investment return capital flowing at rates expected by the other consortium members. What was more, single-handedly closing a contract with a new and extremely profitable investment property could very well mean that the consortium at large would rethink its decision as to the structure of the Council and appoint HER to the President’s seat. In fact, she thought quickly, it might even be in her best interests if she commissioned a little work on the side and made SURE that the Centre’s last-ditch effort failed. 

It would be an extreme pleasure to wipe the smiles off of her colleagues’ faces as her words of warning proved true – and the consortium members rewarded her diligence to the Triumvirate accordingly. She smoothed her hand down the multicolored woolen scarf that draped her right shoulder as a Council member, fancying being finally able to move it to her left shoulder and rule the entire Triumvirate world properly! And under her leadership, the Triumvirate would not repeat the mistakes of her husband. No – she would guide the consortium into an age of untold riches and profit, making it a global power to be reckoned with.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Jarod finished entering all of the pertinent data and hit the print key to send the latest expense reports to the printer. So much of the work that he’d ostensibly been hired to do was mind-numbing numbers crunching – the head of the Nano-Technology Department had been very sloppy in his attempt to hide places where he’d been quietly skimming money from the discretionary fund. Jarod was finding that he was doing the work that would take most accountants and auditors the better part of a day in under three hours – leaving more than enough time to do his mainframe search.

Bob Rogers, the man whose murder had set him on his path into the Foundation’s inner workings, had been far more than a psychologist, it now seemed. He’d also been on the advisory council for a very shadowy project called Purloined – and that he’d been firing off extremely concerned memos to Jake McKenna and the head of the Psychological Research Department right and left up until the very day that he’d died. It had taken Jarod speed-reading nearly a hundred memos before he’d uncovered the project name the night before.

With a contented sigh, Jarod rose and reclaimed the expense reports from his printer, inserted them into an inter-office envelope with the proper routing information already entered on it. That done, he placed the envelope in the slot labeled “Out” that dumped it into a collection bin for all outgoing mail from the Accounting Department. The day’s work was now finished – and once more, it was time to sink his teeth into the mystery that continued to grow around Bob Rogers and the circumstances of his death.

But first…

A glance at his watch told him that it would be within the realm of reason for him to be taking his lunch break at about this time – which MIGHT account for his wandering out of his designated lair and into other, more interesting, parts of the Foundation facility. After all, he had the word of the workers on the elevator that somewhere here was being prepared a Sim Lab – or something that sounded all too much like the location in a Centre Sub-Level where he’d spent the greater share of his adult life. He HAD to see – he HAD to know if it were true!

Armed with a wad of ledger books and several balance sheets for cover that he’d hastily compiled from a file cabinet, Jarod exited his office. Looking preoccupied by what he carried, he then joined the quiet flow of employees walking in the same general direction as the two men had come from as evidenced by their position when they’d been waiting for the elevator. His badge listed his clearance level as 5, and he found himself surprised when he came upon a set of locked double doors bearing a warning that no one with a clearance of under 6 was allowed. 

He tried to look nonchalant as he paused in front of the doors and peered through the window. Beyond it seemed to be another hallway – this one filled with construction workers finishing the job of laying carpet and hanging doors. While he watched, a single white-coated man emerged from a side room in the company of Jake McKenna – both men looking serious and determined.

Jarod quickly took a glance around and then moved along down the hallway in order to avoid calling attention to the fact of his preoccupation with what lay beyond those locked doors. Somewhere, somehow, he was going to have to score a level 6 clearance ID badge and make a duplicate – for these locked doors worked on a barcode scan that wouldn’t be difficult to break. He wasn’t too worried – he’d managed harder things before.

But for now, he’d seen enough to know that his next physical search of the facility would take him down that newly carpeted corridor. He hastened along down the corridor, eventually ending up in the Accounting Department lounge to snag a cup of their reasonably smooth coffee and one of the almost-stale donuts that had been left over from that morning’s offering. From there, he headed back to his office and, putting the ledger books and balance sheets back where he’d found them, settled down at the desk again.

Quickly he typed in the keystrokes that got him behind the user interface and logger for the mainframe and brought up the basic search utility he’d written a long time ago for hacking the Centre mainframe in search of information without tripping over one of Broots’ alarms. He typed in the word “Purloined” and hit enter and sat back to sip on his coffee while he waited for the computer to sort through the millions of documents it had stored for any mention of that word.

While he waited, his mind spun. Like the Centre, most of the Foundation project names had meaning relating directly to the project itself – having to do with what the research itself hoped for, or some oblique reference to something related. Given that, what would a project named “Purloined” refer to?

To purloin meant to steal – so did that mean that the Foundation was intending to STEAL research from another firm? 

Jarod leaned his head back and closed his eyes in order to concentrate. He ran through the meat of any number of memos Bob Rogers had written in relation to this project – and noted that many of them had complained bitterly of the ethics of the research itself. Bob Rogers, for all his willingness to work for a firm that dealt with weapons R&D and the inevitable arms dealing that would result, had evidently had an ethical limit to what he could tolerate without complaint. Evidently he hadn’t bothered to worry about the fact that the research might have been stolen.

OK. So what did he have? A verbal description of a Sim Lab, a psychologist murdered while talking to an FBI agent about other matters of concern, that FBI agent now dead as well, while also consulting on a research project that was possibly stolen from somewhere else and …

Jarod sat up straight all of a sudden, his eyes wide. What if…

At that moment, the computer chose to chime gently to announce the end of its search. Jarod blinked and leaned forward to study the file entries offered and then bring up the first document on the list. As he read, the coffee he’d drank roiled sourly in his stomach.

It was even worse than he’d dreamed.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Ugo N’Deka made himself comfortable in the easy chair that had been placed behind the mirrored glass window into this new and improved Sim Lab. On the other side of the glass, the young man known as Cancer was absorbed in reading the material dealing with the subsidence of the airport in Japan that had been built on top of an artificial island off-shore. Triumvirate money had been heavily invested in the designing of that airport – and now it seemed that the entire enterprise would only survive for a few years more before weight, vibration and wave action rendered the entire facility useless.

The documents Raines had sent to Africa regarding Duplicity and Cancer specifically after the Council had agreed to test this new Pretender had stated that he was most highly trained in physics and engineering and aerodynamics – physical sciences. With this looming as a possible fiscal disaster for both the Japanese government and the Triumvirate, having potentially Pretender-quality consulting on the problem had been agreed as an appropriate test of the new Pretender’s ability.

Still, N’Deka had his doubts. The young man, while easily far more docile than Jarod had ever been the few times he’d seen the original Pretender at work, was still as curious and as persistent as his progenitor. If the young man’s intellectual capacity was anything near that of the original Pretender, one of the recommendations N’Deka intended to make was to move the young man and his keeper directly to Africa as a condition of renewed referrals and investment. The project prospectus listed a total of ten up and coming Pretender candidates – the cost of having the Triumvirate not bringing the Centre down by calling in debts could easily be the complete control of one of those ten.

He glanced to his right and saw that Solo Indala was doing much the same thing he was doing – observing both the boy and everyone else in the room beyond the glass. Indala was a sharp man – his skills of observation and deduction had been of immense service to the Triumvirate many times over the years. It was why N’Deka had wanted him here in Montana. If there was a flaw to be found – a weakness in the process as a whole – Indala would find it and explain it to him in terms that made it easy to see and understand.

“I saw some of the others,” Indala whispered, leaning close to his Triumvirate boss.

“Others?” N’Deka repeated with a slight frown.

“The other boys,” was the immediate explanation. “The resemblence is uncanny.”

“To Jarod?” Indala nodded his answer – and N’Deka nodded in response. “It is to be expected. Raines’ information stated that these youngsters are more of the same project that yielded Gemini – they are clones.”

“We never had a chance to test Gemini.”

“No,” N’Deka admitted ruefully, “we didn’t. But isn’t it comforting to know that while Jarod may have set the program back a few years, he didn’t destroy it completely?”

Indala’s gaze rested heavily on the young man who had risen from his seat, some of the documents in hand, and had walked over to the white board and started filling the surface with virtually incomprehensible mathematic scribblings. “Only if this one proves to be as capable as Jarod was in his day,” the younger man commented skeptically. “And that remains to be seen.”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Broots reached out for his coffee mug and took a sip, then grimace and put the mug back down again next to his monitor. That was right – he’d gotten that cup nearly an hour earlier, and by that time, the Computer Technologies lounge had added its third helping of coffee grounds to the maker, resulting in a sludge that only visually resembled the normally bracing brew.

He’d been running down recent references to Jarod for the entire day – and it was beginning to get boring. All of the references he’d read dealt with either speculations about whereabouts or musings about the abilities of the escaped Pretender to have tackled this problem or that. There had even been a statement from Raines to Lyle, threatening the younger man with violence if he harmed Jarod the next time the Pretender landed in Centre control. All in all, there was nothing new – and he was going to have to report to Miss Parker that he’d found nothing…

Wait a moment…

He was staring at a small invoice – a very old transfer invoice for moving genetic material from the vault in Biogenics to somewhere in Alaska. The file came with an attached memo window that linked this invoice to another that, upon investigation, showed the same material had been moved to somewhere in Montana about six years earlier. Broots scratched his head as he studied the reference numbers on the genetic material vials that had been moved and wondered why a search for Jarod would have brought up THIS – until it hit him. THESE were the numbers that he and Sydney had discovered pertained to Jarod’s genetic material – material that Sydney hadn’t ever realized had been collected from his protégé – that had resulted in Gemini. All information regarding the Pretender Project had been included in the Boolean search criteria he’d given the mainframe – including the bio-storage referral numbers.

Oh man!

Broots read both transfer document very carefully, and then did a search of the mainframe for memos originating with Mr. Raines within a week’s date before and after the date on the most recent invoice. He’d read fourteen memos before he found the one he was looking for – and then he printed both the memo and the invoice. Paper in hand, he was about to bolt for Miss Parker’s office, knowing she’d want to see this right away – when he threw the door of his office open to discover both Sydney and Sam standing, preparing to knock.

“Just the man we wanted to see,” Sam stated firmly, moving forward as if invited.

“I need to get this to…”

“Broots.” Sydney’s soft accent in such a firm tone told him he wasn’t going to get away as quickly as he wanted. “We have to talk to you.”

“Can’t it wait?” the tech sputtered. “I just found…” Man! What about when Sydney found out… “Syd…”

“Sit down,” Sam told him in no uncertain terms. “What you have will have to wait a bit.”

Broots knew, as both men pressed inexorably through his door, that he was trapped. He stepped backwards, found his chair with the back of his knees, and sat down again, folding the papers in half and then in thirds as if to mail them. “What?”

“You sent me to talk to Sam,” Sydney explained patiently, making Broots blush slightly.

“Yeah, well…” He glanced up at the sweeper and was gratified to see that the man wasn’t angry. “Sorry, Sam.”

“And Sam told me quite a story,” Sydney continued, pulling Broots’ attention to him again. “I have agreed that you need to hear it – so that you’ll know what’s going on.”

Broots looked back up at Sam in assessment this time. The man still looked as if the only thing keeping him awake was the amount of caffeine in his system – but he at least looked groomed and in control of his wits. “What story?”

Sam leaned forward, his blue eyes glittering with intensity. “You remember the anniversary celebration a few weeks ago?”

Broots rolled his eyes. “Do I?! I had to rent a tuxedo for the thing, remember? A whole seventy-five dollars just to look like a pengui…”

“I heard something that night – that there is going to be an attempt to take the Centre down permanently, and take out Miss Parker if she even begins to think about digging in the wrong place and uncover it.” Sam straightened and leaned his backside against the right front corner of Broots’ desk. “It seems that the folks in charge of this little adventure feel that she’s the biggest threat the Centre can mount against them – and that taking her out before taking out the Centre itself is a reasonable option.”

“T… take her out?”

“Kill her, Broots,” Sydney explained patiently. “Sam’s been trying to keep an eye on all the avenues of investigation that have sprung up recently, in order to minimize that threat, but…”

“You think O'Brien’s death is part of this?” Broots asked, his mind making a leap of logic.

Sam nodded slowly. “I have a sneaky suspicion it is – especially since Miss Parker’s brother has been…”

Broots gaped. “Someone threatened Evan?”

“Not threatened – not directly, at any rate,” Sam answered grimly. “Just let Miss Parker know that all was not right in the world where he was concerned.”

The computer tech looked back and forth from one man to another. “And…”

Sam dropped his intense look and reverted to a rather careworn expression. “So I’ve been watching her house at night – just in case…”

Broots’ eyes widened. “And THAT’S why you look like something the cat dragged in – I get it now!”

Sydney sighed. “That isn’t all of it, Broots. We need you to help us keep this from Miss Parker – for her own good…”

The balding head was shaking vehemently. “C’mon Sydney, you know better than that. How can Miss Parker defend herself if we deliberately keep her in the dark?”

The old psychiatrist now leaned forward. “It’s life and death, Broots – HER life and death. I want her to survive this latest crisis – don’t you?”

Broots face mirrored his shock, and then his slowly fading into thoughtful consideration. “Sydney – you know her as well as anybody here. If we do this – IF, that is,” he raised a warning finger that showed that he wasn’t convinced yet, “...what will she do when she finally finds out what we’ve done?”

Sam sniffed. “Probably tear us all limb from limb,” he offered darkly. “And then she’ll start to get really nasty.”

“At least she’d be alive to do it!” Sydney snapped. “I thought this was what you wanted!”

“I do!” Sam protested. “I just have no illusions…”

“And just how do you two intend to keep her from figuring out that we’re blind-siding her?” Broots asked, his tone sarcastic.

Now it was Sydney’s turn to sag. “We haven’t quite figured that out yet, but…”

“And what do we intend to do about the investigation that we’re running now? She’s going to know something’s up if we just suddenly stop thinking about O'Brien or those fake receipts...”

Sydney shrugged. “We’re going to have to come up with some way to distract her – God help me, right now I wish Jarod would pull us off into another futile cross-country jaunt…”

“As if worrying about her brother won’t be distraction enough,” Sam offered.

Broots ran his hand across the sparse and extremely soft stubble that substituted for hair on the top of his head. “You’re sure she’s in danger?” he asked a little more softly and insecurely.

“The men I heard talking were very open about the kind of consequences for looking in the wrong direction,” Sam assured him tiredly. 

“Any ideas who they were?”

Sam shook his head sadly. “I’m working on it – I’m fairly sure one of them had to be one of the “friends and colleagues” invited in from the outside. The other I’m pretty sure works here – somewhere…”

“That’s not good…”

“From the sounds of the way they were talking, the Centre’s on its last legs – and they’re just biding time until it falls in, although they’re helping the process along as much as they can.” Sam sighed. “But I don’t really give a damn about the Centre – a job is a job is a job. It’s the people I worry about – and Miss Parker…”

Broots put up a hand. “You don’t have to convince me, Sam. I’m in.”

“Thank God!” Sydney relaxed visibly.

“So… what do we do?”

Sam glanced at Sydney. “Well, for one thing, you and the Doc here get to take turns doing the midnight watch now – so I can rest and be able to protect her better again…”

Broots sighed and nodded. “That will be fun explaining to Debbie…”

Sydney shook his head. “Better she not know anything, Broots. The less people know, the safer for Miss Parker.”

“I’ll have to tell her SOMEthing…”

“You’ll figure something out,” Sam announced with a confidence he wasn’t sure he felt.

Broots rolled his eyes and shrugged his shoulders. “Thanks a lot, guys…” He then looked hard at Sam. “So we’re going to continue her investigation – just keep her from some of the more… explosive… results?”

“We’re going to try,” Sydney nodded.

“And you say we’re going to need a distraction?”

Sam nodded. “Although for the life of me…”

“I’ve got it.” Broots unfolded the papers that had remained tightly clutched in his hand. “Take a look at this.”

Sam took the papers from him, read the top on and then handed it to Sydney while he purrused the other. “So DNA was moved from Blue Cove to Alaska and from there to Montana. Big…”

“I found these while doing the mainframe search for references to Jarod,” Broots told his colleagues conspiratorially. “I used every fact I knew about Jarod in the search criteria – including the inventory number of his DNA sample in the Bodily Fluids Vault…”

“These were the samples that were used to make Gemini!” Sydney exclaimed suddenly. “I heard mention of a laboratory in Alaska when I was working with Gemini – before Jarod…”

“Yeah, Sydney, but this invoice doesn’t mention Donoterase at all! Yet the genetic material was forwarded on to Montana…”

Sam looked at Sydney questioningly. “Does the Centre have facilities in Montana?”

Sydney shook his head with wide eyes. “Not that I know of…”

“I think this qualifies as the kind of puzzle that Miss Parker would enjoy unravelling – and one that will keep her away from the wrong kind of questions – don’t you?” Broots pointed out triumphantly.

“When were you going to show her this?” Sydney asked.

“I was just on my way…”

“We’ll come with you,” Sam urged, pulling the slight computer whiz from his seat. “Let’s go.”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Lyle slowly rose through the darkness that had overwhelmed his mind to find that his body was still screaming in excruciating pain. In fact, he hurt so badly in so many places that his mind couldn’t cope – hopping from one sensation to the other as he remembered the brutality. His left hand was now also missing a thumb, his kneecaps had both been shattered by expertly-administered blows from what was probably the Japanese equivalent of a black-jack, and just the act of breathing moved ribs that were broken and threatened to puncture lungs. He tried to open his eyes but couldn’t, and soon the ache in his face told him that they were most likely swollen shut from the first beating that had taken place only a few hours after he’d landed in Yakuza care.

They were going to kill him, he just knew it. And they were going to do it slowly and as painfully as they could possibly manage without killing him outright first.

He must have uttered an involuntary whimper, for rough hands had hold of his aching jaw and a deep, gravelly voice was barking incomprehensively at him – probably asking him if he was awake. The movement of rough fingers at his face caused another moan that escaped before he could control it.

Another voice sounded – a smoother, more civilized voice that spoke at length. Lyle found himself almost wishing for death as the words rippled over him without any meaning at all. Then…

“Tanaka-sama wishes to tell you that we know who you are – what you are. We know what you have done.”

Lyle moaned again. What could they be talking about?

“Raines-san was very kind to provide information about your tastes in women…”

Oh God!

“Contrary to popular opinion, Yakuza philosophy is very high on principle of honor. But you have no honor, Lyle-san. You are worse than barbarian.”

Lyle couldn’t help the whimper that shuddered through his throat as he felt the first touch at the buttons of his shirt – the waistband of his trousers – as the smooth Japanese voice spoke further, and then was translated. 

“Yakuza is also very concerned with justice. So you must know that justice demands that you pay for the actions you have done – with your body, with your sanity, and finally with your life. And if Karma is true, you will pay in your afterlife too – over and over again.”

Trouser legs slipping roughly over broken knees brought forth a cry – as did a hand with a now-missing thumb dragged roughly through a sleeve. Lyle was systematically and efficiently undressed until he lay on whatever cushion they’d given him as naked as the day he’d been born. There was a silence while he became aware that the room was not at all warm, and he began to shiver – making his worst injuries hurt only that much more. He would have tried to pull himself into a fetal position, but even thinking of moving his legs was more than he could stand.

Finally the voice spoke again – and in a moment, the translator imparted his fate.

“We have thought long and hard about the proper way to administer justice to you, Lyle-san, once Raines-san agreed to the transaction. And we have spared no expense in finding the appropriate individual to be responsible for that. His name is Kinjiro – if you choose to cry out a name. He will be as thorough with you as you have been with any of your… conquests.”

Lyle worked his mouth hard, and finally squawked, “Mercy!” in a hoarse, swollen-lipped whisper.

“In Yakuza justice, there is no mercy, Lyle-san,” the translator said, bending close. “Your betrayal of Tanaka-sama resulted in the death of our esteemed leader – for which you have yet to pay. Your abominable taste for human flesh has made you into a monster. Justice demands that you receive exactly what you have done to others before you enter the afterlife. Know that, like your victims, you too will eventually be released from your pain – although perhaps not quite so quickly or painlessly. After all, you have caused a great deal of pain and dishonor in your time…”

“Nooooooo…” Lyle whimpered as he heard the footsteps move away from where he lay, and then the soft click of a secure door being closed. Worse, he then heard soft footsteps come closer – and then felt a hand land on his side, forcing him to roll over until he was prone.

He had no idea how far his screams would carry as rough hands began to touch him – and the first stroke of an incredibly sharp knife sliced open first one buttock and then the other. But when the cushion dipped with the weight of his attacker and Lyle felt the brush of naked skin on naked skin, his screams went up several octaves. The horror of what awaited him – of the atrocities that would be visited on him just as he’d visited them on others – was almost too much to bear.

Outside the door, two stoic guards simply ignored any evidence of what was happening beyond their post – as they had done many times before. They were elite – chosen for this duty as reward for service to the Yakuza – and it was an honor to be party to the revenge. The man who had been locked inside with the traitor was an expert at drawing out the death experience of those the Yakuza deemed deserved the full exercise of justice – it would be days before they would be called in to clean up the mess. The construction firm preparing to lay the foundation of the new Sumimoto Bank building in downtown San Francisco had been very well paid to wait until its very special cement load was fully ready to be used.

And until then, they could appreciate and enjoy the screams.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

“Is she in?”

Green eyes lifted from the computer screen to look at the three men arrayed in front of the secretary’s desk. “All of you?” she asked in surprise.

“It’s important,” Sydney stated firmly. The implications of the transfer invoice – and the files Broots had subsequently uncovered while he and Sam had watched over his shoulder were immense. So many of the details were missing – but it explained so much. In a way, he was glad now that he no longer had contact with Jarod – this news would devastate his former protégé easy as much, if not worse, than the discovery of the genetic experimentation that had resulted in a clone had years before.

“Miss Parker,” the otherwise mousy secretary was speaking into the receiver, “Doctor Sydney, Mr. Broots and Sam are asking to see you.” She listened, and then hung up. “Go in,” she told them and, with a blink, went back to her typing.

Miss Parker was gazing evenly at the door as the three walked through. “All of you at once?” she asked in some surprise. “What is this, a convention?”

“Miss Parker,” Broots began.

“Don’t tell me – you actually found Jarod in the mainframe?” she quipped, watching the expressions on their faces carefully.

“Not quite,” Broots mumbled – and Sydney winced.

“There’s something you need to see,” Sam announced, deciding to take the lead from the other two. He took the papers from Broots’ hand and walked them up to her desk.

“What’s this?”

“Just read, Parker,” Sydney told her, his accent more obvious as a result of his distress. 

“Sydney…”

“Miss Parker,” Broots interrupted. “Please.”

Finally she took the papers from Sam’s outstretched hand and began to read. “What is this?” she asked sarcastically after browsing the first document quickly. “A transfer invoice…”

“Note the location, Miss Parker – as well as the date,” Sydney urged gently.

Finely manicured brows arched high and then slid toward each other as she shook her head. “I’m still not getting it.”

Sydney sighed. “When Broots and I were doing your… genetic background research a few years ago,” he started uncomfortably, knowing how much she hated to be reminded of the apparent relationship between herself and Mr. Raines, “we had to sort through the library of reference numbers. We…”

“These came up as the result of that search of the mainframe you’ve been having me do, Miss Parker – the one where any mention of Jarod…”

Storm-grey eyes rose to meet his, stark and stunned. “This receipt has to do with Jarod?”

“His genetic material, to be exact,” Broots confirmed.

She re-read the headers on the invoice. “This first one is almost eighteen years ago…”

“Look at the next one.”

She moved to the next page. “OK – whatever it was, it was transferred again six years ago to Montana…”

“Did you know we had a facility in Montana, Miss Parker?” Sam asked quietly.

The response was a shrug. “There are a lot of Centre-related facilities and businesses that exist, Sam – unless my attention is called to them specifically, I have no reason to bother with them.” She handed the papers back to Sam with a frown. “Now, are you boys going to tell me why you all came busting in here looking like three of the four horsemen of the Apocolypse, or shall I just start chewing asses…”

“Miss Parker,” Sydney sighed – it was going to fall to him to help her see what was so obvious to the rest of them. “Do you remember about seven years ago, a young man housed in a Centre facility known as Donoterase?”

She nodded. “Gemini – the only successful clone…”

“Are we so sure?” Broots asked challengingly. “Once they had the process perfected, what was to stop them from going ahead and keeping on…”

Miss Parker gaped and then simply shook her head in negation. “Broots, that’s…”

“Obscene?” Sydney supplied the description he’d considered appropriate.

“Ridiculous,” she finished her own sentence, shooting Sydney a sour look. “The Centre told Raines to close down the Pretender Project a long time ago, remember? Do you honestly think he’d risk it all in such an audacious…”

“Since when does Mr. Raines ever let the Triumvirate tell him what to do?” Sydney challenged back. “Especially if he held in his hand the possibility of creating any number of individuals with a similar innate intelligence and genetic predisposition for Pretending – do you honestly think the Triumvirate could keep him from exploring his options?”

“You wanted to see everything to do with Jarod that had been ever been hidden in the mainframe,” Broots reminded her. “Well… Here is something we’ve seen before – just not quite like this…”

“Complete with a mystery facility in Montana that nobody’s ever heard about,” Sam added. “If they’re doing more Pretender training, that could put a fair financial burden on the Centre, don’t you think?”

Miss Parker blinked and ran her fingers through her hair to pull it back from her forehead and away from her face. “You think THIS is the underlying cause of our current expense squeeze?”

“A full SIM Lab, psychiatrists and psychologists on staff, a research library, support and security personnel…” Sydney ticked the items off on his fingers. “In its day, the Pretender Project was not only the most lucrative enterprise the Centre had going, but its greatest expense.”

“What if Jerry O'Brien had tripped over THIS?” Broots suggested with a suspicious gleam in his eye. “Would Raines have killed his own watchdog to keep us from finding out?”

Sydney watched Miss Parker’s face – for all she’d learned to handle information and process it without giving away her thoughts, he’d long since learned to read her like an open book. The idea that there were possibly other clones of Jarod being held prisoner in the Centre bothered – that was certain – and the possibility that it all was connected to her own problems with Raines and his cost-cutting was a bait just too great to ignore. She was hooked.

“OK,” she tapped the papers with her forefinger. “Broots – on top of your keeping going through the mainframe for mention of Jarod, I want to know everything you can dig up about this facility in Montana up to and including what color toilet paper they use in the women’s restrooms.” 

The computer tech worked hard not to sigh at the expansion of his current workload, but didn’t quite succeed. 

She shot him a withering glare. “Suck it up, Scoobie – balls to the wall time. Sydney,” she whirled on the psychiatrist next, “…dig into the Psychogenics Department’s database – find me personnel that live their lives in Montana rather than here in beautiful coastal Delaware. Sam…” She paused as she studied her personal sweeper. “You OK?”

“I had a rough night,” the dark haired man admitted wryly. “But I saw someone to get a handle on the problem.”

It was enough to satisfy her. “Good – because I want that report about Jerry O'Brien’s activities just before his death on my desk by this time tomorrow – as well as a progress report on following the fraud through the Centre accounting system. We can’t afford for you to fall apart on me, do you understand?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Now get out of here and let me get back to work!” She pointed to the door behind her visitors. “We’ll meet tomorrow morning and share our findings.”

Obediently – and unanimously grateful for her new interest – the three turned to go out the door. None was so far away to miss the explosive “Shit!” that she tried to keep under her breath – and all of them understood where the exclamation came from.

The only question was would it be enough to distract her from other, more dangerous, pursuits?


	9. Seven, Six, Five, Four...

Charles Delgado stood patiently while the muscular security man checked his laminated ID card against the computer screen – and then held his hand out to take it back. “Go on through,” the big man intoned dismissively and waved as he lost interest in this latest maintenance drudge and returned his attention to the monitor screens in front of him. Delgado didn’t stand around or even say thank you – he knew that most of the janitors and maintenance crews around here were less than personable to begin with, and that antisocial behavior was to be expected from them.

He was counting on that, as a matter of fact, to see him through what he needed to accomplish with a minimum of distraction or interruption. Already he’d managed to litter the public areas of the facility with enough explosives to virtually vaporize the place – all he needed now was access to the more restricted corridors. That and he needed to case out the dormitory hallway so as to make sure he and his associates chose the right doors to blow open when the time came.

The clock was ticking – according to his own assessment, and providing he was able to go everywhere that the blueprints indicated were the key structural areas to the facility, the prep work should be finished by the end of the day. Fishbain had been right – despite the appearance of heavy security, getting around to the pre-determined spots that had been carefully chosen for their import to the overall structural integrity was proving surprisingly easy. Security personnel seemed well trained and disposed to just avert the eyes when a janitor and his cart made his way down the hall. This was good news for him – under and behind the cleansers and towels were items that normally didn’t belong on a janitor’s cart.

There it was – the dormitory hallway – and there was the mess that he’d been called to handle. The cause of the mess – a sick child, by the looks of things – could be heard not far away behind a closed door continuing to gag and cough his miser. Delgado heard a soft, firm and calm voice chiding, “You need to learn not to let your emotions rule you when you look at such things. How do you expect to be able to extrapolate about the motives of a serial killer if you’re sick to your stomach from a simple glance at a crime scene?”

“I’m sorry, Jonathon,” came a much younger voice in contrition. “I won’t let it happen again…”

“I’m very disappointed in you. You know better than that…”

Delgado shook his head and shot a glance at the hallway surveillance camera. “Twenty-two,” he uttered under his breath, knowing the sensitive microphone snapped to the inside of his overalls collar would pick up the statement and transmit it to where Langer was waiting. 

Sure enough, the little receiver in his right ear vibrated with an equally soft, “Got it.” The red light on the camera blinked three times, and then the voice in his ear said, “Go ahead.”

The way was now clear for him to spend his time on his hands and knees planting the next block of C-4 explosive at the base of another weight-bearing steel beam – of which this corridor housed three. Granted that no security or other personnel meandered down the hallway in the next half hour or so, he’d be finished and long gone from here – and ready to find an excuse to move into the next area.

AFTER he cleaned up the mess he’d been sent to handle in the first place, that is. With a grimace of disgust, Delgado dunked his mop into the bucket and drained it before swabbing down the sickness-coated tiles. Imagine a kid that young-sounding looking at the crime scene photographs of a serial killer’s work without getting sick! It was enough to boggle the mind…

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Miss Parker carefully shut the door to Sydney’s office behind her. “When was the last sweep of this place?” she demanded of Sam without uttering a word of greeting to anyone present.

“Did it myself this morning,” Sam answered immediately. “Found only three this time.”

“They’re slipping,” she commented sarcastically to no one in particular. “All right – we’ve all been busy beavers for the last day or so. So what do we have to show for our efforts – and do any of us get a break to enjoy our weekend tomorrow?”

“I found a project name,” Broots announced. “Duplicity.”

Sydney’s eyebrows shot towards where his hairline had once resided. “Duplicity?” Just the project name – given some of the particulars – gave his stomach a turn. Broots hadn’t told them his news before then – just let them know that he’d found something in his search of the distraction project that Miss Parker would find very interesting.

“Duplicity.” Miss Parker turned the project name over on her tongue and then shot Sydney a sharp look. “And we’re talking a transport and probable use of Jarod’s genetic material, aren’t we?” She threw her head back and sighed deeply. “Looks like you may well have been right, boys. Our Mr. Raines is evidently up to the nosepiece of his oxygen tube in playing God again.” She shook her head. “They’re doing it again.”

Broots nodded unhappily. “There is absolutely no mention of the Montana facility in the mainframe outside that single invoice – at least, not in so many words. I’ve found a few memos in the archive dated back ten or eleven years, however, alluding to a big construction job in Montana that still needed Congressional approval, but nothing other than that.”

Syd frowned. “Congressional approval for a construction site? They must have been building on federal land. And…” He looked apologetically at Miss Parker. “Ten or eleven years ago, it would have been your father – Mr. Parker – who…” He saw her close her eyes and swallow hard, and he felt bad for having to make that connection to a painful and rarely mentioned past.

“Most of the federal land up there is National Park,” Sam exclaimed. “I’ve been there – it’s close to the US – Canadian border, up in the mountains.”

“Why would the Centre be building something in the middle of a park?” Broots frowned, more than happy to skitter away from more painful associations.

“In the middle of a virtual wilderness,” Sam responded, “nobody would even know it was there.”

“For what its worth, there is no indication that the Psychogenic Department here in Blue Cove has transferred or is paying the salaries of any psych personnel outside the facility right here,” Sydney offered with a frown. “The department has seen a fair decline in personnel over the last few years anyway, so it is possible that some of the employee movement may have been masked as dismissals or people quitting – but such subterfuge, without further evidence, is impossible to prove or trace.”

“Wonderful,” Miss Parker groaned and then turned her gaze on her sweeper. “And what do you have for me?” she asked him pointedly. “More than Dr. Spock, I hope…”

“I talked to my friend in Accounting again – and found out there are so many slush fund accounts and loose reporting procedures that Raines could easily have financed a trip to the moon without calling much attention to it anywhere on the books. Hell – I’m going to be working with Broots to put together a comprehensive report of all the security holes in the accounting procedures that make much of what we are finding possible. The thing is though, I’ve hit a brick wall…”

“What kind of wall?”

Well, so much of the information I need to access I can’t get to – and there’s only a few people with high enough clearance to see ALL the financial records of the Centre…”

“Who?” she demanded. “Who can you talk to that can at least look into it…”

“In the accounting department, there’s only Vickering. He’s the department head.” Sam shrugged. “But he’s been hard to get a hold of. There’s always Raines himself, of course, but…”

“Damn it! Doesn’t this Accounting Department head realize that fraud is being committed right under his very nose?” Miss Parker thrust a clawed hand away from her and then began pacing. “Where is he anyway, that he’s so unavailable?”

“Right here in the Centre, Miss Parker – but in meetings…” Sam began.

“I want him – in my office and ready to explain things – by the end of the day,” Miss Parker hissed. “Is that understood?”

“Uh… His security clearance is higher than yours, Miss Parker,” Broots reminded her gently. “I don’t think he has to listen to you.”

The storm-grey eyes looked to be harboring a hurricane. “I’ll get the authority to demand his presence – if I have to go to Raines myself and drag the permission out of him.” She jabbed her finger into Sam’s chest. “Because of gaps in his processing, the Centre is bleeding funds. I’m sure Raines would like to hear I’m stemming the tide – and would be more than happy to require this Vickering to make himself available to my team...”

“Just make sure you don’t mention Montana or “Duplicity” while you’re at it, Miss Parker,” Broots warned. “While Mr. Raines might want to stem the tide of fraud and embezzlement, I’m sure he still won’t want to have his pet secret project exposed.”

“I didn’t just fall off the banana boat yesterday,” she sneered at him. Again she whirled on Sam. “What about that sweeper seen outside O'Brien’s office with a gun – did you talk to him and get his explanation?”

This time Sam shook his head. “He hasn’t been at work for the last two days, Miss Parker. I was thinking that if I got a free moment…”

“Screw that. Go now – visit him and get your answers.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She stood for a moment, looking from one face to another, and then shook her head. “Why do I get the impression that I’m missing something really important?” she asked, obviously meaning the question rhetorically. “We’ll meet again tomorrow afternoon – unless someone uncovers something really big between now and then…” She strode purposefully to the office door, threw it open with her usual drama and stalked from the SIM Lab.

“Man! She’s not going to be fooled for much longer!” Broots worried, his façade of calm competence collapsing as the reason for it distanced herself. “What’s going to happen when she starts to realize that we haven’t been reporting on the fraud angle at all for days now?”

“Every day is a gift, Broots,” Sydney answered, sharing his lack of optimism. “Be glad we have this one for now – and take advantage of it as much as you can.”

And then everyone in the room gasped as the lights went out on the entire Sub Level.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Jarod stared at the suspended plastic sphere that dominated the center of the room, and his heart pounded hard in his chest. For a long moment, he wouldn’t have cared if the entire Foundation security force had come into the room and discovered him there. The simple fact that there was indeed a SIM Lab in the Foundation – there was just no other reasonable explanation for the kind of equipment present and ready for use – was enough to take his breath away as if he’d been kicked in the chest.

Project Purloined obviously was the theft, incarceration and corporate misuse of another Pretender – and there was only one place such an individual could come: the Centre.

He shook himself and slipped back out into the hallway and tried not to show his shock too much as he stumbled toward the double doors again. This was ten times more than he had bargained for when he’d come to the Foundation to look into a suspicious murder – he was going to have to think about this!

Luckily, nobody was watching him directly as he re-entered the hallway near the security desk and headed back in the direction of his office. When he got to his office, he closed the door gently and then nearly collapsed in his chair – the implications of what he’d just found finally almost overwhelming him.

The Centre must have another Pretender – one that the Foundation was planning on stealing and using for their own purposes!

How could this be? He himself had orchestrated the escape of the bulk of the Pretender Project subjects years ago, and everything he and his father had discovered in Alaska and Donoterase had led him to believe that only one clone had been created. When Sydney had wormed his way into the Gemini Project, his mentor had apparently been led to believe that Gemini was a solitary success story – but what if that hadn’t been the case?

He’d cut the connection between himself and Sydney so completely after the fiasco at Carthis that if there had been a hint of more Pretenders created from his DNA, Sydney would have had no opportunity or ability to tell him about it. That was, IF Sydney had known in the first place. Would Sydney hide such a thing from him – knowing now the kinds of abuse the Centre had visited on his protégé every time he wasn’t there to safeguard his project? The only person who could answer that question was Sydney himself – a man he’d deliberately tried to excise from his life and waking thoughts. 

Not that it had ever really worked…

Despite everything that had happened to him while under Sydney’s authority, he couldn’t help feeling as if by trying to shut the old psychiatrist out of his life he’d disowned his own father. He and Sydney shared something – a lengthy and close relationship, if nothing else – that he’d never known and probably never would know with his real father. As much as he loved Charles Russell, when the chips were down and the child’s drive to find comfort and shelter from his parent kicked it, it was always Sydney who appeared – however briefly – first in his mind.

A combination Dr. Doolittle and Dr. Mengele, it was Sydney who had nurtured and raised him – and yet had stood aside and allowed horrible sights, sounds, experiences and information to flow into and over him for the greater share of his adult life. How much of the abuse of the creativity he’d been forced to employ for nearly thirty years Sydney actually was aware of was debatable – and in some cases it simply didn’t matter. There were things that Jarod would never be able to forgive Sydney for – not the least of which was leaving him to grow up believing himself unloved. 

But in the years since his escape, he’d discovered to his amazement that Sydney HAD actually cared more about him than the old man had let on – probably even to himself. It had taken months at his parents’ farm to sort through the memories of his days on the run to see the subtle hints that Sydney had been quietly and consistently aiding him in fitting into a society that was an alien environment at first – and in the process keeping him two steps ahead of his Centre pursuers. 

But he’d never let that revelation lure him into a sense of genuine and unconditional trust. Sydney was still a part of the Centre – had followed their orders and made him into a lab experiment – and therefore unreliable at best. And now Sydney was the only person who could be trusted as much as possible to not only give him a straight answer about his theory but not report the renewed contact after all this time. 

Damn.

Jarod wiped a hand down his face as if to clear the cobwebs from his mind at the thought of re-establishing contact with anyone remotely connected to the Centre. He’d left that life behind – at least, he’d thought he had. But now, reminders of that life and indications that another soul stood to be subjected to that kind of Hell had dragged that life right back into the forefront. He could no longer ignore or walk away from the fact that some of the information he needed to finish his Pretend had to come from the most unlikely and unwelcome of sources.

The telephone on his desk chose that moment to ring dissonantly – and Jarod took a deep breath before answering. “Simmons, Accounting…”

“Simmons, I need your report on what you found in Project Hamstring’s books like yesterday,” Claude Hanson’s sharp tenor voice was loud enough in Jarod’s ear to make him jerk the receiver away by an inch or two. “Sam Brewer refuses to admit to any improprieties – I want to have your evidence on hand to bring him to task.”

Project Hamstring was the third folder in his In Box – and the report on what he’d found in a forensic examination of their books had made him chuckle more than once. “I’ll finish it up and have it to you by lunchtime, sir,” Jarod told him, almost grateful for a distraction from his previous train of thought. “Will that be early enough?”

“My meeting isn’t until four this afternoon,” Hansen replied, “so noon would be more than satisfactory.”

“I’ll get right on it, sir,” Jarod stated firmly. “I’ll call you when its finished.”

“Fair enough. Thanks, Simmons – you’re doing great work.”

“Thank you, sir.”

The call ended, and Jarod opened the folder and toggled his monitor on. While he was compiling the report, he could let the sight of the newer, better SIM Lab fade into the background for a while. He had an appointment to talk to Bob Roger’s wife that evening – that too could keep him nicely occupied...

No, Roger’s wife could wait. Dinner with Em could wait. It all could wait until after he’d had a chance to talk to Sydney – and after he’d had the chance to try to figure out whether the old man was lying to him again when they were finished.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

“You have got to be kidding me!” Raines hadn’t been quite so apoplectic for a long time. In the dimness of the emergency lighting of his office, his face looked positively skeletal.

The head of the Maintenance Department shifted back and forth on his feet nervously. “I don’t know how it happened, Mr. Raines – we just received a shipment of new bearings for the generators, bearings that need to be replaced every year or so after constant use. I’m having the purchase orders checked again – but it seems that the bearings were the wrong size – and they rattled loose and…”

“I don’t want to hear it!” He gave a noisy, desperate wheezing gasp. “Do you have any idea how much money this little mistake is costing the Centre?”

The Maintenance head glanced nervously at the shadowy figure of the Chairman’s personal sweeper, who stood behind and to the right of the powerful CEO of the Centre. “It will take about three hours…”

“Of lost productivity! The mainframe is inactive – our ability to do business is cut off completely!”

“Sir, if I can join the teams working on the repairs…”

Raines waved his hand in disgusted frustration. “Go! Get us back up and running quickly…” He pulled in another noisy and desperate gasp of oxygen. “…or I’ll be dropping an evaluation team on your ass faster than you can say…”

The stocky and balding maintenance man had already skittered from the office through glass doors that were even now swinging closed on silent hinges. “Damn it! Of all the times for this to happen…”

“What do you want to do about the Pentagon representatives, sir?” Willy asked in a very cautious tone. When his boss was in this kind of mood, there was no telling who would end up bearing the brunt of the explosion in the end.

Raines’ eyes snapped as his head pivoted quickly. “How the Hell do you think we can demonstrate our newest surveillance systems upgrades…” He wheezed again. “without working monitors on which to observe the demonstration?” he demanded in frustration, wheezing painfully to fill his lungs again. “And do you really think that we’re going to be able to stall busy Pentagon officials for a full three hours while our maintenance people get our generators running again?” He sighed and gasped again. “Have Kristen call and postpone the appointment…”

“Sir…” Willy was reluctant to point out the obvious, “…they’re probably already on the way here.”

“DAMN IT!” Raines wheezed so hard, he began to cough – and then held up a hand to restrain Willy from coming to his aid as he battled to get his breath back. “Then go get a gas-powered generator from Dover and have at least the demonstration facility fully powered within the next hour and a half. We NEED this contract!”

“Yes, sir!” Willy spun on his heel and quickly left the office, not exactly sure where he was going to come up with a gas-powered generator on short notice without having to buy one new from an outside vender. 

William Raines slammed his fist down on the huge mahogany desk. What else could go wrong?

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Miss Parker put out her hand and smiled. “I’m glad to have you as a new customer of the Centre’s computer operating system, Mr. Davidson.”

“I’m more than impressed with the flexibility of the program you’ve developed, Miss Parker.” Cliff Davidson was impressed with the firmness and warmth of the handshake as well. “When will we be able to take delivery of the system?”

“That depends partly on you,” Miss Parker answered frankly. “As soon as payment is received, I can call our Computer Sciences Department and have a qualified technician dispatched to your corporate headquarters within the day – and you can be up and running and transferring data formats by the end of the day tomorrow.”

“Without replacing any of our current hardware?” Davidson was amazed.

“Our OS is designed to run on pre-existing hardware platforms in order to be the most cost effective in the short term – and yet be advanced enough to accommodate the latest advances in computer hardware technology, and so extend that cost effectiveness far into the future.” She pushed her plate back on the small table, more than contented with the portion of the shrimp that she’d consumed while discussing the particulars of the pending sale with her latest customer.

“Allow me then.” Davidson reached into his pocket and pulled out his cell phone and pushed an obviously pre-programmed button. “Heidi, I would like to arrange an electronic transfer of funds to…” He pulled the phone down from his ear and spoke to the pretty brunette with the killer reputation across the table from him. “Do you have a band and an account number into which I can transfer funds right now?” He smiled quickly. “We really need that new system up and running, Miss Parker…”

“Of course.” Miss Parker reached for her clutch purse and pulled out one of the small cards that had such information printed on it for just such occasions. “That one is the account you need to use,” she informed him, pointing.

As Davidson carefully read the bank and account information into his cell phone, Miss Parker suddenly found herself wondering if some of the fraud money owed to her project had ever been paid electronically rather than with hard-copy checks. With the ease and accuracy of electronic money transfers, there was no reason to suspect that such transactions hadn’t happened – and possibly with greater frequency than even a sale like this one…

“Miss Parker?”

She blinked and brought herself back to the bargaining table with Cliff Davidson. “I’m sorry – what?”

“If you would care to confirm the transfer, I’d really like to go ahead with the installation of the OS as soon as possible…” Davidson finally had the good grace to show his anxiousness. “Davidson Industries’ accounting software has been returning far too many errors in the last month or two – my IT people are afraid that if the system were to crash completely, it would wipe out our entire Accounts Receivable data…”

“Of course.” Miss Parker pulled her cell phone from her clutch and dialed her secretary to do exactly that – and then order the woman to place a delivery order for the newest version of Centre Business OS on the Davidson Industries’ mainframe in Atlanta. But her mind was spinning far from the fact that she’d just generated a tidy profit for the Centre. 

Sam was overloaded with tasks he was handling for her – Sydney had his plentiful research projects on-going, and Broots was up to his eyebrows not only in the security update of the mainframe but all the computer-related investigations about this new secret project of Raines’ and the fraud problem. Her plate was less than empty too – she had the end of the security review to administer, as well as the mid-week security reports to read. 

Still, this new avenue of investigation was one that SHE could look into without having to further overload any one member of her team. All three had looked just a bit on the ragged side in her office earlier that day – as if the stress of the pressure she was putting on them was suddenly beginning to expose cracks in their facades of efficiency and talent.

No, this one she’d handle herself. After all, she was every bit as good an investigator as any of the others were – and sometimes it helped cement her position as project head to remind them of that fact.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

“Shinse…”

“Lula…” The oldest of the Triumvirate pressed his cell phone against his ear and continued to amble down the circuitous path that meandered through the extensive consortium estate on the wealthy edge of Nairobi. In the distance came the clicking of the cicadas, always a calming sound – even on days that had stretched for far more hours than he’d normally appreciate otherwise. With two of the Council out of the country, the day-to-day operations of the consortium as a whole rested on his tired shoulders – and the occasional walk in the fresh air was necessary to maintain focus. “What can I do for you this evening?”

“I’m merely reporting my preliminary recommendations regarding the possibility of heavy investment with the Eire Foundation,” she told him with carefully disciplined patience. “I feel that the Foundation shows real potential to generate considerable dividend income in return for our investment capital…”

“I’m not surprised,” Olabi replied, leaning against his favorite tree and looking out across the exquisitely landscaped lawn towards the deliberately humble-looking yet sprawling administrative building that was situated behind the skyscraper that was the wellspring of Triumvirate activity otherwise. “From the preliminary information you submitted before you left, the Foundation sounded like the kind of organization we work best with.”

“I’m concerned that we will not be allowed quite as free a rein with them as we have enjoyed with Blue Cove – but considering the lack of return from that quarter lately…”

Olabi sighed audibly. “Lula, we’ve been over this…”

“I want to see a healthy portion of our investment capital moved to the Foundation, Shinse. Our members will not tolerate our funds stagnating…”

“We will see what Ugo reports when the test of this new project that Mr. Raines claims will restore profitability to the Centre, Lula – that was the decision of the Council. We are currently involved in fact-finding. Your trip to Philadelphia is no more or less than Ugo’s trip to Montana. Once you both are back home, we will review all of the facts together and come up with a definitive strategy.”

Lula sighed. “McKenna let slip that he has sources pointing to a rapid disintegration of Centre finances,” she reported anxiously. “How many sources do we need to hear from before…”

“Lula!” Olabi’s voice, while normally soft and gentle, could be as much of a sharp whip as her dead husband had once been able to wield. “This Council – and I – will not be rushed into a decision before all the facts are known. If you are satisfied that you’ve found out everything you need to know about the Foundation, then I suggest that you get on the next trans-Atlantic flight home. I’m not young anymore – I could use some help here.”

“Then send me Solo Indala,” she pouted, pulling the turban from her closely cropped head and tossing it on the coffee table of her hotel sitting room. “We need to know if all this information predicting gloom and doom for the Centre has any merit.”

“Sorry,” Olabi at least had the grace to sound apologetic. “Ugo requested his assistance before he left for Montana – I think for much the same reasons.”

“We need him acting independently!”

“Patience. Come home, Lula. Your place is here. Let me know when your plane lands – I’ll send a limousine for you.”

Lula gasped in outrage and frustration as the overseas call abruptly terminated.

Are they all completely blind, she shook her head in amazement. To actually hesitate over the question of a fiscally sound enterprise over one with a proven track record of financial problems was insanity.

She pushed another button and waited only for a short time. “We can’t afford to wait much longer,” she barked at the person on the other end of the line. “Call Imsi – make the arrangements.” She paused, listening. “Just get him set up and ready. I’ll put things in motion once I’m back in Nairobi.”

She put the phone back down on the coffee table after she disconnected the call and relaxed back against the cushions. That was it – the first step had been taken after almost a year of hoping that a complete overhaul of the Triumvirate hierarchy wouldn’t be necessary. Her husband, “Big” Mutumbo, had made all of the arrangements in his time – but had always held that putting the plan into effect would cause more damage than it would prevent. Lula sniffed at the memory – the big man had been wrong about a number of other things too.

There would be no turning back now. One didn’t call back assassins once they’d been turned loose. Either the next few days would see her the undisputed head of the Trimvirate – and selecting suitably pliable pawns to sit as figureheads on the Council – or they would spell the end of the Triumvirate as a while. 

Either way, the long waiting was over.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

“But I thought I’d already looked into this stuff,” Broots complained even as he typed quickly to access the Accounting Department records yet again. If he had to spend hours staring at rows of numbers again, he was going to be tempted to share the ventilation ductwork with Angelo to hide out for a while. If ever there was a way to make advanced mathematics boring…

“We looked into the checks, who they were issued to, who endorsed them – but we didn’t pay any attention to the electronic end of things.” Miss Parker jabbed her finger in the direction of the on-screen button even she knew was the next step in getting where she needed to go in the mainframe. It was frustrating that getting to this point was something she couldn’t accomplish by herself after all. The Centre Accounting software was certainly a maze of convoluted menus that seemed to fold back on themselves unles one knew exactly how to read them. “There – hurry!” She snapped her fingers impatiently.

“But Sam says that the Centre still prefers to use hard-copy as a way to make sure…”

“Yes, the Centre would do things the old-fashioned way when it comes to money,” she agreed, still rotating her finger to keep her technician moving as quickly as possible through the screens on the way to the accounting information pertaining to her project. “But I think the time has come to entertain the thought of outside interference. In that case, using electronic transfers to commit fraud…”

“Here you are,” Broots sighed, finally opening the screen he’d been seeking. There, in red and black numerals on the monitor, was the bogus summary expense report that Raines had given them – with each entry annotated with a transaction number. “Now what – check them all?”

“For electronic transfer of reimbursement funds,” she nodded. 

Broots sighed heavily. He’d been contentedly rewriting code to lock down the Accounting Department’s software to prevent any further tampering of the sort that had beset the Pretender Retrieval Team – the last thing he wanted to do…

“What’s that?”

He stared at her pointing finger and the information on the monitor behind it. “Hmmm…” He clicked on the transaction number, in order to see the information it hid – then jumped. “Miss Parker…”

“What is it?”

He frowned up at her. “We tripped an internal flag. Whoever is responsible for this transaction now knows that we’re looking into it…”

She waved impatiently. “We’ll worry about that later. Where does it say that the money was sent?”

Broots tipped his head and typed a few more characters, paused, read the screen again, and then looked up into his superior’s face in confusion. “It was routed back to the Accounting Department itself, Miss Parker – to a contingency fund controlled by the department head…”

“Mr. Vickering?” Miss Parker frowned and then narrowed her eyes. “Isn’t that the person that Sam wanted to talk to – but couldn’t?”

Broots thought and then nodded. “I think that was the name…”

She pushed herself away from the desk and began to pace in a tiny line, constrained by the miniscule size of her technician’s workspace. “If I were someone who wanted to foul up a large organization’s finances, I don’t think I could find a better place to do it from than the Accounting Department – do you?”

The balding computer tech gaped. “You honestly think…”

“OK, let’s not jump to conclusions here,” she stopped pacing and once more rested her hip on the corner of his desk to lean close to his work. “Look through the other transactions – find me another electronic one and tell me where it went. Maybe this was just a fluke, and we have to dig deeper.”

Broots typed furiously for a moment, rapidly flicking through the reimbursement memos one by one until, “Here we go.” He clicked on the transaction number – ignored the chime that announced another flag had been tripped, although each one made his sense of dread grow deeper – and nodded slowly. “And this one went into the same contingency fund as the other.”

“Check the status and balance of that contingency fund,” was the curt demand.

He typed, flinched as yet another flag showed as tripped – then stared, and finally whistled at the list of ledger entries and balance in the account itself. “How long has he be at this, Miss Parker?”

Miss Parker rose and paced again. “I want a printout of all activity in this account over the last year – complete with transaction reference numbers.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Get proof of the crime in my possession before someone makes IT disappear too,” she snapped, again rolling her hand in an impatient gesture that was futile in making the printer spit out the information any faster. The moment Broots had the papers from the printer’s tray, she snatched them away. “I want access to that account closed to everyone except Mr. Raines himself – most especially closed to Mr. Vickering – can you do that?”

Broots’ eyes widened. “I… I’m not sure…”

“Just do it.” Her smile had a predatory edge to it. “Let’s put a kink in our head bean-counter’s tail and see how loudly he squeals.” She patted him on the shoulder. “Good work, Broots – you can go back to what you were doing.”

“Uh… thanks…” he managed, but she’d already stalked from his office. He sat back in his chair and rubbed under his nose nervously – and then picked up the phone. “Sam?” he asked the moment the sweeper took the call, “I think we may have a problem.”

“Another one?” Sam blurted, turning away from the secretary to the Accounting   
Department head in frustration at being able to make a firm appointment to see the man much before the next week.

“Yeah. Come to my office – we need to talk.”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Les Vickering stared with real astonishment at the flickering notices on his computer monitor. He’d stepped away from his desk but for a moment, but had come back to a flashing screen that told him that two of the transaction logs of payments to the contingency fund had been accessed. As he watched, a third flag popped up announcing that the fund ledger sheet itself had been accessed. The terminal ID was – as expected – one of the ones belonging to the Pretender Retrieval Team.

Damn her! He should have known when her pet bulldog of a sweeper had stood outside his office door hounding his secretary for an appointment – the woman was just not able to keep her nose out of where it didn’t belong. If he wasn’t careful, fifteen years of quiet and effective sabotage would be uncovered and neutralized.

Threatening her little brother hadn’t thrown her off the track after all, it seemed – although there had been a couple days that things from her office had appeared to be quiet and under control. Still, putting the failsafe plan into action would require more authority than he could wield by himself. He reached for the phone and dialed.

“Jim?” His twin’s voice was both shocked and concerned. “You really shouldn’t be calling me at this hour…”

“She’s starting to uncover things, Jake – the kind of things we don’t want uncovered,” he blurted without preamble. “Electronic transfers – the kind of things that lead to places we don’t want her looking…”

“I thought you were going to be able to distract her!”

“I did too – and it looked like it worked for a little bit…”

“Shit, Jim – we only need a couple more days before the whole house of cards is going to start to fall in anyway!”

Vickering hit his fist on his desk. “Don’t you think I don’t know that?” He controlled his temper with several long, deep breaths. “I think we’re going to have to take her out completely after all.”

There was a long pause on the other end of the line. “Well, we knew that it could come to this,” Jake reminded his brother. “Get Stan Bateman to handle it – he knows how I want her taken out. The upheaval from her death should keep the rest of them nicely preoccupied so that they don’t see the executioner’s axe coming.”

“What about her people? They’re half the problem…”

“So take them out too – all except the one we spoke of. We may need him later.”

Vickering hung up the phone and closed his eyes briefly. Yes, he’d known this moment would come sooner or later – and he was fully ready to enjoy knowing the offspring of his family’s nemesis would pay the price – but he’d really hoped to simply destroy the Parkers financially and psychologically. Death was too good for them.

But a plan was a plan – and Jake was depending on him.

He dialed again. “Stan? Something’s come up…”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

“What do you mean, you were setting off alarm flags right and left? What the hell did you think…” Sam was livid.

“You weren’t there,” Broots retorted in his own defense. “She was right there, in my face and watching everything I was doing. She didn’t seem to care about the security flag…” He threw his hands wide. “What the Hell was I supposed to do, tell her “No, no, Miss Parker – we need to stop this right now or you’re going to get hurt”? As if she’d listen…”

“Shit!” Sam put his hand to his forehead and stalked over to the window of the ground-level cafeteria in which the three co-conspirators had chosen to meet. The afternoon was waning – already the day had that warm glow to it that spoke of the coming twilight. The scene would have been calming to the sweeper – except for the situation inside the building tearing at him.

“We knew we were going to run into this sooner or later,” Broots tried to soothe matters – as if they COULD be soothed. He knew as well as Sam that this was a disaster. “We knew it was only a matter of time.”

“Too damn little time!” Sam exploded, his back still to his colleagues.

Broots sat back in his chair in a huff. “Well, the damage is done – so NOW what do we do?”

Sam gently pressed his closed fist against the glass, then turned back to face the others. “They said that an accident would be very easy to arrange.”

“We can’t keep this from her anymore,” Broots stated in a soft voice. “She needs to know…”

“Needs to know what?” Sydney asked, poking his head around the edge of the doorjamb and making both men inside jump. He insinuated himself further into the room with a concerned look on his face. “You two look as if the world just fell in.”

“It may have,” Broots grumbled in dismay.

“Miss Parker had Broots doing some digging in the mainframe – in the accounting records – and they evidently set off some alarm flags,” Sam explained, his voice tight and controlled. “Three of them, as a matter of fact.”

Grey brows climbed Sydney’s forehead. “Merde!”

“Piled three feet deep, no less,” Broots agreed under his breath.

“Broots is of the opinion that we should tell her what’s going on,” Sam sighed. “I’m not so sure he’s not right.”

“The weekend starts tomorrow – which means she’ll be spending more time with Evan, and paying less attention to the people around her than she does here,” Sydney mused aloud. “I’m sure she’s thinking that when he’s with her, she’ll be able to protect him – and not be thinking that the threat is aimed at her rather than the boy…”

“How can she protect him if she doesn’t know that there are people who might actively be seeking to…”

“I know, Broots,” Sam retorted impatiently. “I’m sorry – I just was hoping that we’d be able to keep this just between us for longer than just a few days. I was hoping…”

“When are we going to tell her?” Sydney asked, looking from one face to the next – and then frowning. “We are agreed – she needs to be told?”

“Yeah,” Broots nodded. “I just don’t look forward to it.”

“Neither do I,” Sam sighed. “She’s going to think we don’t trust her.”

“It was a chance we took when the three of us agreed to withhold this,” Sydney reminded the sweeper in a brittle tone. “She’s going to be royally steamed at all of us. This doesn’t answer the question of when, however – or who is going to be the one to break it to her.”

“She’s closest to you, Sydney,” Sam began almost apologetically. “If there’s anyone she’ll listen to longer before exploding…”

Sydney shook his head. “This was your idea, Sam. Broots and I both wanted to tell her straight off – YOU were the one to convince us to keep our mouths shut.”

“You both agreed with me!” Sam countered sullenly. 

The three men glared at each other in mutual anger for a long moment that was finally broken when Sydney’s cell phone jangled in his pocket. Sydney put up a restraining finger as he fished the phone from his trousers pocket with the other hand and put the device to his ear. “This is Sydney…” he answered as he always did.

And then his jaw dropped open. “Jarod?!”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

“Miss Parker, can we speak to you for a moment?” an unfamiliar voice challenged the brunette as she stood waiting for the elevator to take her to the parking level and a nice, quiet weekend with her little brother.

She turned and frowned. Walking swiftly towards her were Lyle’s retrieval team – with the owl-eyed computer technician in the lead. A hand went immediately to her hip in impatience. “Can’t this wait?” she snapped tiredly, “or better still, take your concern to your master…”

“That seems to be a problem, Miss Parker – and we were hoping that you might have some idea what’s going on,” Dr. Ernst Fischer answered in an equally frustrated tone. “Do you have any idea where Mr. Lyle is?”

The other hand managed to land on the hip despite having a clutch purse in its grip. “Do I look like my brother’s keeper?” Miss Parker taunted the trio. “I’m sure you all have a better idea of the kinds of sewers and garbage heaps he haunts…”

“We had a meeting set for this morning – and he never showed,” the sweeper interrupted her brusquely. “As a matter of fact, nobody’s seen him for the last two days at least. I even asked Mr. Raines’ personal bodyguard if he’d seen him, but got nothing from there either.”

Miss Parker shrugged and then punched at the elevator button again. “Well, boys, make it unanimous. I haven’t seen, heard, or smelled Lyle in the vicinity for the last couple of days – and the absence has been greatly appreciated. When you do find him,” she smiled coldly, “tell him to keep up the good work.” She stepped into the elevator and turned immediately to block any of the others from following her. “Enjoy your weekend.”

Once the silver door had slid closed, she relaxed her pose and ran her fingers through her hair. So Lyle had pulled another one of his disappearing acts, had he? If it wouldn’t mean that she’d have to spend more time arguing with Mr. Raines, she would have dearly loved to take advantage of his current lapse to undermine his position at the Centre. She still wasn’t entirely convinced that he wasn’t complicit in any one of the many directions she was having her team investigate – the fraud, or maybe even this audacious genetic experiment. Both operations were right up Lyle’s alley normally – and he always managed to end up with a finger in every slightly sour pot the Centre had brewing at any one point in time.

She straightened and ran her fingers through her hair again. Lyle was a problem for the next time she came in to work – which, with any luck, wouldn’t be until Monday. In her purse were tickets to the Ballet Ruse’s performance of Giselle that would be taking place in Dover on Saturday night – and hotel accomodations for three at the Dover Hilton had been confirmed just that afternoon. Somehow, the idea of seeing a ballet without Sydney being with her had never even crossed her mind – the three of them had made a tradition of watching the local ballet company’s production of the Nutcracker every December for years after all. Sydney always carried his own weight financially on such trips – they would dine in some of the best restaurants in Dover, and more than likely have a trip to a museum or gallery Sunday afternoon before returning to Blue Cove and their normal lives.

This trip had been planned for weeks, and nothing – especially nothing pertaining to her less-than-savory twin brother – was going to prevent her from enjoying the weekend properly.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Stan Bateman watched as the black Boxster pulled up to the stop sign at the entrance of the Centre and then peeled rubber heading into town, and he smiled. She had SUCH a reputation as a driver – fast, dangerous, risk-taking – and a history of alcohol trouble. There was just so much history that was going to play into his hand ideally, removing much of the suspicion that would otherwise accompany an auto accident.

All he’d have to do was find a way to get into her house and drug the food sometime over the course of the weekend. Once she was unconscious, pouring a portion of a fifth of Stolichnaya down her gullet and spilling enough on her clothes to make her reek should handle any questions of the reason behind the accident.

And if the little boy happened to die with her – well, tragedies happened, didn’t they?

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Jarod walked past his sister and into his room, then bent to pull his old leather dufflebag from beneath the bed.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Em demanded as she watched in shock as her brother began pulling clothing and gadgetry from the closet and throwing them hurriedly into the travel bag.

“I don’t have time to explain,” Jarod told her without turning from his work. His laptop quickly was stuffed into its case, with all the wires carefully folded away to take up as little space as possible. “I have something very important to take care of this weekend – and I need to get going as soon as I can…”

“Without supper – and without any more of an explanation than just “I gotta go?” I’d think you’d give me more than that!”

Jarod paused long enough to look her in the eye directly. “Sorry, Em. At the moment, that’s all I can give you.”

“Does it have anything to do with this Foundation place you’re working at?” she asked, an idea refusing to be dismissed from her mind without outside verification. “Is that it?”

“Partly,” Jarod admitted, figuring there to be no harm in a partial truth. “Someone I know is in a spot – and I really need to give them a hand.”

“Who?”

He shook his head and zipped the dufflebag. “You don’t know them,” he stated with certainty. 

“Where will you be?” she pressed, reaching out a hand to his upper arm and trying to pull him to a halt.

“I’ll be back before work Monday,” he promised, letting her pull him to a stop long enough to bend and drop a kiss on her forehead. “You never know, you may well hear from me long before that.”

“I hate the mystery,” Em complained bitterly.

Jarod shouldered the dufflebag strap and the strap from the laptop case, and still managed to shrug. “I can’t help that, Em,” he told her gently. “It’s part of who I am – and there’s not a lot I can do about that…”

“You just don’t want to.”

He stopped and looked at her evenly. “You’re right. I don’t want to. I’m not a child, Em – I don’t need permission to live my life the way I see fit.”

“You owe your family…”

The argument was growing very old – and it was the same argument he’d had several times with his mother over the years. “I owe you and the rest of the family honesty – and to take any potential trouble as far from your doors as I can. You know that what I do is dangerous – and it IS what I do. Now…” He gently moved past her so that his path to the front door of the apartment was clear. “…I’ll be back before you know it – and I’ll be in touch before then, I promise.”

“Be careful?”

The softly-worded warning caught him by surprise, and he turned and gave his little sister a big smile. “Always,” he answered her equally gently.

Jarod let loose a huge and deep breath the moment the apartment door was closed behind him, and he then took the stairs down to where he’d parked his car two at a time. 

He couldn’t believe it – after all these years and carefully keeping the silence that protected him from the Centre intact, here he was rushing off to save Miss Parker’s ass. Just like old times…

No, not like old times. Sydney had been blunt when questioned about the new pretender – there was a project that had just recently come to light on their end that sounded suspiciously like a replay of the Gemini Project, and that Miss Parker had them chasing down more information when this latest crisis had erupted. His old mentor assured him that all the information available that they’d found on the project would be given him – in exchange for his help keeping Miss Parker safe from a vague threat with no face or name.

It would take him long into the night to drive the distance between Philadelphia and Blue Cove – Sydney would be waiting up for him and giving him shelter that night. In the morning, Miss Parker thought that she and Sydney and her little brother would be heading to Dover and a weekend of fun and learning experiences. Little Evan – that’s what Sydney told him the boy was called now – would be spending the night at his sister’s, as always. Between Jarod’s lengthy commute and the boy, it had been decided that Miss Parker would be made aware of this threat – something that Broots and Sam and Sydney had conspired to keep quiet – and then the four of them come up with some kind of defense.

The four of them – that was a laugh! Jarod knew very well that it was he who would be responsible for finding Miss Parker a way out of her mess – and that he’d have to have it in hand and in effect in time for him to drive back to Philadelphia in time for work on Monday. Like it or not, whatever was going on at the Centre was impacting what was going on at the Foundation – and very likely underlying the murder he’d originally come to Philadelphia and the Foundation to investigate. 

He gently tossed his duffel bag onto the floor of the front passenger seat and put his laptop down on the seat itself as he slipped behind the wheel. This was NOT the way he’d intended to spend the weekend!

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

“Zoë!” The grey-haired woman threw her arms around her granddaughter and hugged hard. “Where have you been?”

“Whoa!” Zoë laughed at the strength of the embrace. Her Gram had always been so protective of her – never more so than after her cancer had become known. “I went to get a second opinion of my condition, Gram,” she patted the old woman on the back and then stepped back. “Word is my remission is still rock-solid.”

“You could have told me where you were going,” Gram remonstrated her even as she put an arm around the young woman’s waist and pulled her through the front door. 

“I didn’t want to worry you,” Zoë replied gently. 

“Dr. Stanley called while you were gone too – he sounded surprised to hear that you’d up and vanished…”

Zoë sniffed. “Dr. Stanley is a worry-wart, Gram. I’m fine – as you can see…”

“I’m just glad you’re home!”

“Uh…” The redhead paused just outside the door of the bedroom that had been hers for almost longer than she could remember. “Jarod didn’t happen to call too, did he?”

“Jarod?” Her grandmother’s bright blue eyes twinkled merrily. “No, your young man didn’t call – were you expecting him to?”

Zoë sighed. She needed to hear from him. There was… there was something she needed to talk to him about… no… that wasn’t quite it… “Well, I haven’t heard from him for a while – I was thinking that maybe he’d gotten some time off so he could come spend it with us for a change…”

Gram merely smiled and shook her head. “Maybe you should call HIM for a change.”

The red curls shook. “He’s such a busy man, Gram. I prefer to let him take the lead…”

“Damned fool time to be old-fashioned, Zoë. I hear modern women don’t sit around and wait for their men to finally wake up and smell the coffee…”

Zoë moved into the bedroom and tossed her purse on the bed. Her mind was filled with Jarod – and the driving need to see him again. The last cell phone number he’d given her years ago wasn’t good anymore – and he’d not seen fit to give her a more recent working one. He was still the man of mystery…

“Now don’t you just pine away in there,” Gram was chiding from the open doorway. “You look as if you haven’t been eating hardly anything where you were – and I’ve got some leftover fried chicken in the fridge. Come out now, and get some food in you. How do you expect to keep your health up if you don’t eat…”

Zoë let her grandmother’s words just wash over her like a comfortable and warm blanket of caring. She’d missed this lately… funny how she couldn’t quite remember where she’d been after all. She HAD been to see another doctor – hadn’t she?

Where WAS Jarod – and why wasn’t he calling?


	10. Three, Two, One...

William Raines sat in his office on the topmost floor of the Centre tower surrounded by darkness. His personal staff – including his personal bodyguard – had all been sent home for the evening; but he had chosen to remain behind. He sat, fuming, alone in the dark. 

Darkness fit his mood to a tee.

The demonstration for the Pentagon officials had been a complete disaster. The first gasoline-powered generator that had been dragged out of storage had refused to start at all. The second, brought into service just in the nick of time for the demonstration, ran out of fuel half-way through the demonstration – and the Pentagon people had walked out on their appointment before more gasoline could be located to put the generator back on line. As if the fates were determined to laugh at him, just as the dark green military sedan could be seen turning the corner onto the long drive that led back to the kiosk at the entrance to the Centre property the repairs to the main generator were finished – and the lights in the Centre had blinked back on. 

The damage was done, however.

A project two years in development and the future of breakthroughs in miniaturization of video input devices that had been the result were now cast into limbo. The product itself, originally designed as an extensive component upgrade in a larger system, would have to undergo further research to make it marketable in other applications – lowering the bottom line return on investment for the foreseeable future. The worst part of the demonstration fiasco was that a good deal of reputation and good will had gone up in smoke as tempers flared while the demonstration faltered and then failed – and Pentagon officials tended to not be very forgiving. When the deal involved amounted to millions of dollars for high-caliber technology, perfection and efficiency was essential from the word go – and malfunctioning generators and electrical systems demonstrated neither.

The demonstration seemed to mirror the condition of the Centre in general. The financial situation was becoming almost unbearable. The income that the project would have generated almost immediately from the initial orders of the component had been desperately needed to fill in the gaps while waiting on word from the Triumvirate. That there was no word from Montana as yet was another severe irritant. And to top things off, the day had ended with an urgently-worded plea from the chief procurement officer regarding suppliers no longer being willing to take his phoned in orders on account. Upon being questioned, the man finally admitted that apparently there had been some mix-up in the payment of bills due, leaving some large accounts seriously in arrears…

At the moment, there was only barely enough money in the bank to back any payroll checks written on what should be a payday that very next Monday morning. The payroll would be almost entirely funded by Yakuza money paid upon delivery of a man wanted by them in retaliation for the death of their leader in prison – and there wasn’t enough of THAT to stretch to two paydays. Even the once well padded accounts that had been keeping the Montana facility afloat were beginning to run dry at long last. After all these years, the ignominy of bankrupting a global enterprise like the Centre was almost more than Raines could take. 

It wasn’t his fault, dammit! Charles Parker had sworn him to secrecy and made him promise to fully fund Duplicity before that ill-fated trek to Scotland – and in the years since he’d taken over Parker’s seat, he’d kept that promise. Duplicity had been a gamble from the very start – and the basis of several bitter arguments between himself and Parker that last year. Banking so much of the Centre’s financial stake on a single project’s future profitability – money that wouldn’t be accessible for nearly ten years – ran against the grain. And now, when he needed word from the Triumvirate that his demonstration to THEM had been a success, he was getting stonewalled. The test in Montana was still on-going – even Raines knew that SIMs took time to set up and run successfully – and a final decision based upon performance could not be rushed without potentially compromising the result.

This bind was – and always had been – Jarod’s fault. That damned Pretender had run away from his responsibilities and obligations, leaving the Centre forced to refund the very substantial sums of monies already received for SIMs that could never be run by sub-par Pretenders. His loss – and the loss of almost all their other Pretender candidates – had thrown a monkey wrench into the greatest profit-making process the organization had managed to develop. To make matters even worse, it had been Jarod who had stolen Gemini – the Duplicity prototype – at just the moment when re-establishing the Pretender Project was virtually a done deal. It had taken almost four years to get past that setback – to get the next oldest Duplicity subject ready for full use – and it was still possible that all that hard work and planning had all been for nothing.

Why had his accountants not warned him of the fiscal instability of the Centre long before this? Several millions of dollars in bank accounts didn’t just evaporate into thin air – did it? The very idea was sickening.

And so William Raines sat in the dark – in a Centre that, despite all of its reputation and the power it wielded in the halls of government and the military, was fighting for its very survival. There was no one there in the Centre with whom he could discuss the issue, nobody in the Centre since the death of Charles Parker he could trust – as if he’d been able to trust Charles Parker in the first place. 

He was alone – as he always had been – and in no mood to return to a home that would provide no shelter from the upcoming crisis if the Triumvirate didn’t come to his rescue this time.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Jarod sat in the car, staring at the front of the house on Washington Street and battling the urge to just drive on. Inside the house was Sydney – and with him all the issues and grievances that were associated with the Belgian psychiatrist who had been his father, his doctor, his mentor and his jailer for all those years. It was one thing to talk to Sydney by phone – for years he’d been able to maintain a careful and safe distance from the Centre and yet enjoy the old man’s wise counsel and fresh perspective on a world he was only now beginning to feel comfortable in. It would be another thing altogether to look his mentor in the face up close and personal, to see what the years had done to him and try not to let issues and grievances of a decade ago intrude on an already precarious situation.

Still, he’d driven for the better part of four hours – breaking every speed limit he could between Pennsylvania and Delaware and evading police radar units right and left – and whether he liked it or not, he now needed sleep. He reached for the duffel bag and laptop case and pulled them with him as he climbed from the car. Quick glances up and down the street showed that the Centre didn’t have any surveillance on the place – Sydney had kept his word, then, to keep word of his return to the vicinity a secret. Jarod sprinted across the street with an easy long-legged stride and then up the walk to the cement steps and the front porch.

He’d barely touched the doorbell when the door flew open. “Jarod!” Sydney beamed at him and surrounded him in a bear hug. “It’s so good to see you again.”

Jarod let the laptop and duffel bag slide to the floor to return the hug – something he thought he’d never really be able to enjoy with his old mentor. Despite himself, he felt relieved to find Sydney in such good shape mentally and physically – after all, life at the Centre was anything but a safe pursuit. “Hello Sydney,” he responded and patted the older man on the back. “You’re looking well.”

“So are you, my boy! So are you.” Sydney closed and locked the door behind Jarod and would have reached for the duffel bag except for the way Jarod had hurried to reclaim his luggage. “You can put your things in the spare bedroom – you’ll be staying there tonight.” He gazed at his former protégé with an inner glow of happiness. “You are a sight for sore eyes, Jarod. I thought I’d never see you again.”

Jarod’s dark eyes met his in a steady gaze. “That had been the plan,” the Pretender admitted frankly. “Until I found out that Raines was up to his old tricks again…”

Sydney winced. “Let’s not talk about that right away. Come – your room is this way.” He gestured toward the staircase and let Jarod lead the way. “First door on the right,” he directed.

Jarod pushed open the door and turned on the light in a bedroom that was neat and yet decorated in a Spartan but masculine manner. “Nice,” he commented and dropped the duffel bag and laptop case on the obviously handmade quilt that served as a bedspread. 

“Are you hungry?” Sydney asked, unable to read his former protégé’s mood as easily as he used to. “I have some sandwich makings in the fridge…”

“I had fast food on the road,” Jarod replied with a quick shake of the head. “I’m fine.”

“I’ll make us some herbal tea, then – the kind that will help us both sleep,” Sydney sighed. Jarod wasn’t making their reunion any easier for either of them. “We can talk in the kitchen.”

“Very well.” Jarod turned and waited for Sydney to make a move. “I’ll follow you.”

Again Sydney winced as he began to lead the way back down the stairs. “I told you, Jarod, that you would be safe here…”

“I’m not safe anywhere in the vicinity of the Centre, Sydney – you know that.”

“And I gave you my word you’d be safe,” Sydney countered defensively. “I keep my word, Jarod.”

Jarod felt a pang of guilt – Sydney did indeed keep his word, even when it was in his own best interests not to. “I’m sorry, Sydney. I’ve just learned to be very wary…”

Sydney sighed in relief. That was closer to the Jarod he knew. “I don’t blame you for being paranoid – after all, they ARE out to “get” you…” he forced himself to chuckle at his own joke. “Of course, the ones who really want you have no idea you’re here – and I intend to keep it that way.”

The light went on in the kitchen, whereupon Sydney pointed to one of the hardwood chairs at the matching table. “Have a seat,” he instructed. “Do you have a preference for tea?”

Jarod blinked at the ease with which Sydney had slipped into the role of host – and at the ease with which he had managed to make Jarod feel almost as much at home in this kitchen as he felt in his own mother’s kitchen. “Thanks,” the Pretender murmured and slid into the indicated chair. “Chamomile, if you have it…”

Sydney shot him a quick grin over his shoulder. “You’ve studied up on herbology too since last I saw you?”

Jarod’s face finally cracked a smile. “Its amazing some of the things I’ve picked up for the sake of a Pretend…”

Two sturdy ceramic mugs had found their way to the counter, as well as a substantial ceramic tea pot. “Are you still doing those?” Sydney asked as he filled the tea kettle with water from the bottled water dispenser and set the whistle in the spout for when the water boiled. “I would have thought you would have grown tired of SIMs.”

“I thought I would too,” Jarod admitted, amazed at how easy it was to talk to Sydney after all. There were no pretenses between them – he knew his mentor better than any man alive today did, and Sydney knew him equally well. What was more, Sydney knew better than his own parents what motivated Jarod to do what he did – and wouldn’t try to make him feel guilty about it. “I tried to settle down, Sydney – I really did.”

“How long did it last?”

“Six months.” 

Sydney nodded to himself as he opened the paper packages that held the individual tea bags and wrapped the strings about the handles of the mugs. “And it wasn’t what you expected, was it.” It wasn’t a question.

“Family life has some dimensions that are difficult to adjust to,” Jarod stated a little flatly. “I’d kinda gotten used to being responsible to myself alone – having nobody telling me what to do or when to do it.” His eyes watched his mentor’s back closely. “I had no idea…”

“That family life could be almost as controlling as the life you had here?” the old psychiatrist finished the statement when Jarod’s voice seemed to fade away. He swiveled his head in time to see his old student duck his head in a manner that was all too familiar. He’d pegged Jarod – and Jarod didn’t really want to admit it out loud. “You could look at it from your family’s point of view – they hadn’t had you around all that time and wanted to make sure to make up for some of that as quickly as possible.”

“I considered that.” Now Jarod’s voice was bitter. “It didn’t help.”

“So you went back to your Pretending.”

“I spend a few weeks between jobs with my family in…” Jarod caught himself before he gave away a small fact that the Centre would have killed to obtain not that long ago. “Anyway – I don’t run from one Pretend to another now. I take time out to unwind at home…”

Sydney turned and looked at his student with a crooked smile on his face. “Did you hear yourself just now?”

Jarod blinked. “What?”

“This is the first time I’ve ever heard you refer to ANY place as home.”

The Pretender’s eyes widened for a moment, and then the heavy lids fell and shielded them from view. That wasn’t a topic he really wanted to explore – and he wanted to explore it even less with Sydney’s razor-sharp observational skills at the ready. “Tell me about this new project, Sydney. And tell me about life at the Centre for you and Miss Parker now – I’ll need as much information as I can get if I’m to put together some kind of plan.”

Sydney poured the boiling water into the mugs and carried them to the table, sighing internally at the way in which his protégé had steered the topic away from himself. “I already told you most of what we know, Jarod – evidently there is a project in existence called Duplicity that involves what was done with the rest of your genetic material. It’s currently being housed in Montana…”

“Montana?” Jarod gaped. “That’s an awful long way from Blue Cove…”

Sydney nodded. “We’re thinking that because it’s in a federal park wilderness area, there would be less chance of interference, discovery and…” He paused self-consciously. “…a successful escape attempt.” Jarod’s dark gaze impacted with his hard. “We also think that keeping this project not only fully funded and provisioned but a secret from all but a very chosen few has drained the Centre pocketbook to the point that the matter of a few thousand dollars of fraudulent expense claims could threaten things.”

“The Centre’s growing money-conscious – you’re kidding!” Jarod’s laugh was loud and bitter. “They’ve always had money to burn…”

“Not from the way Raines sounded a few days ago,” Sydney shook his head and sipped at his tea. “Anyway, Miss Parker started investigating when she found out that the expense report being provided to Raines was completely fraudulent. Raines assigned an auditor to the project – who ended up murdered…”

“Murdered? At the Centre?”

Sydney shrugged. “Where else? Anyway…”

“What about this threat that you’re so convinced is going to cost Miss Parker’s life? I’m not hearing anything about that…”

“I’m getting there,” the older man sighed. “It seems that Sam overheard two people at the anniversary celebration a while back talking about a plan to bring the Centre down – AND that Miss Parker’s investigative skills could become a hindrance. Sam said that the agreement was that if she started tripping over things she shouldn’t be, she’d be taken out.”

“And tell me just what it is that she tripped over that has both you and Sam willing to ask ME – of all people – for help,” Jarod demanded, his eyes narrowed.

“She and Broots had looked into reimbursement checks – the hard-copy ones – but they hadn’t looked into electronic transfers of funds. When they did, they tripped over several alarms in the mainframe.” Sydney sighed. “I’m not exactly sure of the circumstances – but Broots was beside himself and Sam was convinced that she’d finally gone that one step too far and tipped off whoever it was that is working this plan from inside the Centre. Jarod, she’d already received a threat to Evan…”

The Pretender’s brows folded together. “To the boy?”

Sydney at least had the grace to look chagrined. “Broots and Sam and I were actually glad for that at the time – we hoped that it would keep her mind off of Centre business a little bit and buy us some time…” He stopped speaking as he saw a pensive look come over his old protégé’s face that indicated that the amount of information had finally reached a satisfactory level to kick the genius into action. Quietly he rose and left the Pretender at the table long enough to fetch the thick manila folders from his briefcase that were all the documentation that he and the others could throw together about the entire convoluted situation. He lay the folders on the table in front of the thoughtful man and then sat back.

Experience told him that the wait while Jarod digested information could be considerable – and he wasn’t as young as he used to be, nor was Jarod. “Here’s everything we have,” he said finally, breaking Jarod’s concentration deliberately. “You can look at it in the morning. For now, however, finish your tea and then get some rest – I have a feeling that it may be the last real rest you’ll get for a while.”

“I have to be back to work on Monday morning, Sydney,” Jarod announced coldly. “Whatever I do this weekend, on Sunday afternoon, I’m in my car and on my way back to where I came from.”

Sydney blinked at the vehemence. “I sincerely hope things work out that way, Jarod,” he reasoned gently. “But get your rest while you can. You’ve had a long drive – and God only knows what we’re going to be up against tomorrow besides a Miss Parker angry at the three of US for keeping things from her.”

Jarod stepped back from his defensive attitude and obediently downed the rest of his tea. Whether Sydney was right or not about how long this would take, he WAS tired and could use the rest. “We are going to get the boy out of the way before we let her explode, aren’t we?” he asked with a quiet smirk.

“Broots will be bringing Debbie with him tomorrow,” the old psychiatrist told him with complete honesty. “That should keep Evan out of the way and leave us room to talk.”

“She’s going to be furious with you,” Jarod stated a little more softly and sympathetically. Miss Parker’s anger was something even he would prefer to keep a distance from whenever possible.

Sydney sighed again. “I know,” he responded after finishing his own tea. “It won’t be the first time, Jarod – and with any luck, it won’t be the last.”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Langer heaved the body of George Lucas into the trunk of the sedan to join the other two already sprawled bonelessly in the cramped space, then slammed the trunk closed before the smell from Chuck Seabring’s corpse could make him start to gag. In his pocket was the latest unwilling accomplice’s Centre ID badge, along with that of Simon Vincent. All three were bottom-rung janitorial staff, all three were without family in the area, and all three were scheduled to be working the same shift in the morning – which was ideal.

Langer climbed into the back passenger seat and leaned back tiredly. “That’s the last one,” Delgado announced triumphantly from behind the steering wheel. “All we gotta do tomorrow is position them just right…” He turned the key in the ignition and eased the dark sedan a block or two down the street before flicking on the headlights and heading toward their lair at Chuck Seabring’s place. 

“I’m ready for this whole thing to be over,” Langer responded curtly. “I don’t like jobs that take place in tiny bergs where everybody knows everybody…”

“Nobody’s gonna miss these guys before they find them in the rubble, Dave,” Fishbain reassured his colleague. “They’re drunks and low-lifes – that’s why we chose them, remember?”

“I know…” Langer let out a long and quiet breath of relief as Delgado turned right onto the main street of the small town after waiting for the traffic to clear. “It’s just that small towns make me nervous. You remember the Nipomo job…”

“Damn straight!” Delgado snorted. Small town attitudes had nearly landed them all on death row a year back in California. 

“Have you heard anything yet about where we’re supposed to TAKE these kids we’re snatching tomorrow?” Fishbain asked, trying to steer the discussion to a topic that still needed some work – as far as he was concerned.

Delgado shook his head in the dim light of the passing street lamps. “The instructions say to get the kids – THEN call for directions of where to take them.”

“They’ll be able to identify us!” Langer objected. “They’ll have seen us before we get them out of the building.”

“Don’t you worry about them kids,” Fishbain kept his eyes moving over the darkened scenery constantly – looking for police cruisers and other law enforcement traps that they really didn’t need to trip over this late in the game. “I stocked up on Mickey Finn Juice before we hopped the plane – the rufies will have them so whacked out, they won’t even know their own names until long after we’ve turned them over.”

“OK,” Delgado stated as he pulled the sedan finally up the driveway of Chuck Seabring’s home. “Tonight we make sure we clean the place out. We wipe all surfaces down and make sure we leave absolutely NO trash behind for the law to trace to us. You two know the drill…”

“We know!” Langer snapped. “We’ve cleared a lair before.”

“Easy, Dave!” Fishbain turned around and looked at his colleague. “We don’t need to get a case of nerves now.”

“I just got a bad feeling about all this,” Langer complained in his own defense. “I know we’ve planned this up one side and down the other – and checked out all the possible logistical failures we might meet – but I just…”

“Like Jerry said, easy,” Delgado stated firmly, turning around after shutting the car engine off and turning off the lights. “We’ve all been pushing very hard these last few days – and we’re about to get our big pay-off. We just need to hang in there a little longer…”

“I tell you,” Langer remarked as he climbed from the car, “this will be the last job for me. I’m getting enough from this that I shouldn’t have to do anything this stressful for the rest of my life.”

“Sure, Dave,” Delgado reassured his man after a quick glance at Fishbain in the light of the car interior lamp. Langer’s increased nervousness of late had been troubling to the both of them – then again, there hadn’t been a whole lot for the electrician of their team to do in this job other than just sit and wait for day when he finally could make himself useful. 

With any luck, his mood would change as the time drew nearer for all of them to once more begin to act like the well-oiled and effective covert penetration team they’d been since their days in the service. If not, however, then Delgado wondered how much of a cut in pay they’d get for only two of the three targets apprehended. Leaving Langer to perish in a doomed structure – destined to be just another blot of blood and mangled flesh amid the collapsed debris – wasn’t his idea of success, but if there were no other option…

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Jarod turned the last page in the file that Sydney had handed him and prepared himself for yet another turn of the stomach. “Duplicity” was nothing short of the genius of the stereotypical mad scientist – and he caught himself almost chuckling at the thought of how much William Raines resembled that description. Not content with creating just one viable clone, Raines had in fact created twelve in all – JD, Gemini, had only been the oldest and the prototype! In Montana, somewhere in the middle of a federal wilderness, were eleven more carbon copies – aged in incriments from four years on. It was almost beyond belief, even for an organization that often pushed at the limits of believability.

Whatever was planned for these boys couldn’t be allowed to continue – no matter what else happened this weekend, “Duplicity” had to be cut down before it could get any further along the path that would be the logical next step – whether it be by the Centre of by the Foundation. Jarod swallowed hard. There were eleven boys and young men poised to begin the dehumanizing job of being full-time Pretenders – losing in the process their childhoods and their innocence to the mindless corporate machine without even knowing it. It was obscene.

He didn’t have all of the equipment he needed with him, but he figured Broots could supply what he lacked. Miss Parker’s agreement notwithstanding, he was going to fax this information on to the one federal law enforcement agent he was fairly sure had never even had a whiff of the Centre’s back pocket. Bailey was based out of Atlanta – far enough away that he’d probably never even met anyone from the Centre. HE would be the logical person to take charge of the investigation too – once this information was added to the mountain of evidence that he’d been carrying with him for the better part of ten years, Bailey would see to it that Raines paid for his part in serial criminal behavior. 

Jarod moved the folder, closed once more, to the nightstand and switched off the lamp – and then lay in the dark unable to sleep. This was the pattern, whenever he had anything to do with the Centre – his ability to relax into slumber evaporated. He’d forgotten that – selective memory loss, he supposed. There was a lot about his life either in or in proximity to the Centre that he’d worked very hard to forget. And yet, here he was…

Just what WAS he doing here anyway?

Sam thought that Miss Parker was in danger – but the sweeper should know by now that usually the only one in danger when facing Miss Parker was the idiot who was dumb enough to try to take her out. Like himself, Miss Parker was lucky – incredibly lucky – that the forces that swirled around the upper echelons of authority in the Tower had never focused themselves enough to do her in. She’d been shot, admitted to a hospital under false pretenses, been driven to drink and a bleeding ulcer – and yet she still enjoyed the perks of high-level security clearance there.

He threw his arm over his eyes. Who was he fooling? He was here because first he’d managed to uncover Duplicity entirely on his own and needed to stop it in its tracks before the Foundation complicated matters – and only secondly because Miss Parker could possibly be in danger. He didn’t want to think of how, if Miss Parker was in danger, Sydney’s safety was compromised as well. He just hadn’t managed to disassociate himself from either of them enough to be able to leave them entirely to their own devices – especially once he’d had a chance to talk to Sydney again face to face.

Emily was going to be SO pissed when she finally found out what was going on. He didn’t even want to think about what his mom and dad would say – much less JD. Ethan might understand, but only because he heard the voices too…

With a deep sigh, Jarod closed his eyes. It was almost three in the morning – and he had a little more than a day and a half left to resolve things here. In that time, he had to figure out how to rescue Miss Parker from anything she wasn’t capable of intimidating into submission herself, to put the details of “Duplicity” and the Centre’s part in it into the hands of law enforcement and then get his ass back to Philadelphia so as to uncover the Foundation’s part in any attempt to steal the project and commit the same kind of unconscionable slavery on innocent young men. And uncover and trap Bob Rogers’ killer.

He hadn’t had to work this hard in a long time. He sighed internally and rolled slightly as a light sleep finally overtook him.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Stan Bateman slid out from beneath the black Boxster with a cautious look down the drive at where a nondescript cream-colored sedan sat at the curb. It was almost comical, the attempt of this one of Miss Parker’s loyal contingent to keep a good eye on her security. This one wasn’t trained at all – slipped around and through bushes to get at the car to tamper with the brakes and the accelerator had been SO easy…

Bateman debated slipping up behind the nerdy little geek and surprising him – perhaps even getting the chance to strangle him as he sat drinking what had to be coffee – and then decided against it. Although he had no doubt that soon enough he’d be given directions to take out the rest of Miss Parker’s team, taking out more than just her at this point in time would betray a possible conspiracy – and her death had to look like and be accepted as an accident.

He’d accomplished half of his objective, now all that was left was breaking into the house and drugging the coffee grounds that Miss Parker would be making her morning coffee from that next day. Between the drugs and the nearly disabled car, the next time she climbed in to go anywhere – probably with that little brat of a brother – she’d wrap herself around a telephone pole at the very least. Once the car was in drive, the accelerator would stick – and after one or two seconds, the brakes wouldn’t exist. The only way she’d be able to stop then would be to hit something.

The tricky part would be to be on the scene quickly enough to make sure that she’d actually done herself in without raising the suspicions of the authorities – and to make sure it happened soon.

Very soon.

Sticking to the shadows at the perimeter of the yard, Bateman worked his way around the side of the house to the back door and punched in the alarm code that he’d been given and checked out as bona fide earlier. He flicked on the tiny flashlight in his left hand as he pushed through into the kitchen – exactly where he wanted to be.

Now – where did that bitch hide her coffee?

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Angelo twitched in his sleep, rubbed his nose to get rid of the itch, then rolled over in the narrow and confining ventilation ductwork. The light from the main switchboard room, where a row of three women manned their PBX boards twenty-four hours a day, shone dimly through the slats of the ventilation grate near the ceiling. The florescent lights illuminated the dull aluminum tunnel that was more of a home to the empathic little man than any other room in the entire place – and made him blink as he finally came awake.

Something was wrong. Something was very wrong.

Daughter was in danger – real danger from nameless ones, Friend was in danger too, and so was…

The brilliant blue eyes glittered in the dim light. Little Brother was in danger too. Angelo was Little Brother’s friend – even though Angelo never saw the little boy anymore. Daughter knew – but couldn’t stop.

Angelo would have to do it.

The little man rose to his knees and began to crawl – carefully at first so as not to let any of the sound from his movements be noticed by those below until he was safely into the building’s internal structure – and then more quickly. Friend had shown Angelo the way out many years ago – Angelo had chosen to stay.

Angelo couldn’t stay anymore. He was needed.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Emily rolled over in bed, unable to sleep for both the guilt and the frustration she’d been feeling for the better part of the evening.

Never before had she considered breaking into her brother’s room and going through his belongings – it had been almost an unwritten rule that someone who had had nothing he could call his own as a child should have his privacy respected now that he was free. But considering some of the information she’d managed to glean from the Internet about the Foundation, she’d finally talked herself into going through Jarod’s things once he’d left for whatever region he felt he’d been called to.

What she’d read had shocked and appalled her.

Jarod’s notes were amazingly thorough – especially those in a set of small, red notebooks that contained both newspaper articles that had been clipped and mounted and footnoted research notes from Jarod’s various days at work there to date. The article about Bob Rogers she could remember – she’d had an editorial article about the state budget woes published the same day and had almost memorized everything else published with her article that day. 

There were a few things she DIDN’T understand, however – terminology that she’d never heard before in her life. What in the world was a “SIM Lab”? Why had he written “Another Pretender” over and over on one page – each iteration overwritten time and time again as if he’d been doodling the words? And why – o why – had he written “The Centre?” in the upper corner of the very last page containing any information at all?

He hadn’t gone back THERE again – had he?

Emily rolled and threw an arm over her eyes, not wanting to think that. Jarod wanted nothing to do with the Centre – he’d told the entire family this over and over since he’d finally brought them all together. Had he been lying?

Did the Foundation have anything to do with the Centre – and if so, what?

How was she going to go about finding out?

And what was she going to do about it when she DID know what was going on?

With a low groan, Emily rolled herself out of bed and padded with bare feet across the carpet to the bathroom and shook a pair of Tylenol tablets into her hand. Acetaminophen was almost as good as sleeping pills on nights like these – she didn’t even need to have a headache to have it work.

There was no recourse – she’d have to wait until Jarod got back, and THEN she’d demand to know what the Hell was going on.

And he better have a damned good answer!

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

_I decide who lives or dies! I decide who lives or dies!_

Zoe shuddered awake as the words reverberated throughout her entire soul. Where was Jarod? 

She tried to roll over and think about how good it had been to have her grandmother’s cooking and fussing over her again – but the echo of the phrase simply wouldn’t leave her alone, eventually blocking everything from her mind except the driving need to see Jarod again.

There had to be SOME way for her to trace him down – especially since she didn’t have a working cell phone number for him anymore. 

She sat up in bed and tried to remember the last time the two of them had been together. Perhaps he’d given her a clue then?

_“I can’t stay long,” he’d told her gently as they both caught their breath after mind-blowing sex that seemed the way they greeted each other after a long absence. “Tonight only – I need to get going again in the morning.”_

_“Are you working?”_

_Jarod had an enigmatic smile that he inevitably wore when asked a question he didn’t want to answer. “You could say that,” he’d replied with that sideways smile that hid so much more than it uncovered._

_“What do you do?”_

_“Any number of things. Say…” He kissed her forehead suddenly. “What’s going on?”_

_“Let’s just say I’m interested – and Gram has asked a couple of times…”_

_“Ah!” he’d sighed knowingly, his hands moving up and down the bare skin of her arm distractingly._

_“So where do you work? What do you REALLY do?”_

_He’d smiled at her gently and tucked her hair back behind her ear before nuzzling her neck. “You don’t want to know,” he told her gently. “I live a dangerous life…” His hands began to move again. “We’ve talked about this before, Zoe…”_

_“But you never really tell me anything, Jarod,” she’d insisted. “I want to know everything about you.” She’d had to concentrate to keep his gentle caresses from undoing her thinking abilities again. “We’ve known each other for long enough that I should at least know a LITTLE about you, don’t you think?”_

_“Well,” he started and then thought for a long time. “All right. I was raised in an institution…”_

_“You were an orphan?” She’d been amazed. “But I met your father…”_

_“It took me a long time to find them,” he’d said. “For a long time, though, I’d wanted the man who took care of me to be my father…”_

_“What was his name?”_

_“Sydney.”_

_“Sydney who?”_

_“Huh?” Jarod had raised his head from the pillow to look at her. “What do you mean?”_

_“What’s his last name?”_

_He’d shrugged. “I never knew for sure at the time.” He pulled her closer and then nuzzled her ear again in a far more determined way. “But if you absolutely MUST know what I do, I help people – in much the same way I helped you the first time we met…”_

_Oh yeah. He’d helped her realize that she should fight her cancer – that while there was life, there was hope. “OK – if you won’t tell me about Sydney, then tell me about the people you help,” she’d demanded then._

Zoe’s face softened into a smile. That had been a night to remember – they’d made love and talked until nearly dawn, and Jarod had done most of the talking. It had been as if the information he’d been holding back had been just begging to be unleashed – as if Jarod had been searching for a friendly ear into which he could spill his thoughts, his memories, his dreams, his disillusionments. His story was beyond belief – if she hadn’t known that he was virtually incapable of lying, she’d have accused him of making everything up. But he’d mentioned names, places…

It was all there. All she had to do was remember.

She rolled herself out of bed and padded over to where she’d left her duffel bag. From it she pulled an envelope – ignoring entirely that it had held a letter from her oncologist urging her to return for more testing now that she’d hit the third year of remission – and began to write down names and sometimes locations.

Perhaps one of THEM could tell her where Jarod was…

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Imsi Londele opened his weapons cabinet and stared into it with a calculating gaze. The call had not been entirely unexpected – after all, “Big” Mutumbo had enlisted his services in advance many years before. Money had been paid to him – and spent in the years since then – and the service had never been requested.

Until now.

More money would be needed now – costs had risen sharply since the days when one hundred thousand US dollars could purchase the deaths of two Nigerian executives. Nigeria itself had a more stable government – and a more effective police system. Bribes would have to be paid to the right people to get others to avert their gazes at the right times.

It wouldn’t do to have the hits take place within the grounds of the Consortium headquarters – nor would it be feasible to have both hits take place at the same time. He’d made certain that his needs had been communicated to the anonymous voice that had interrupted his sleep the night before – that accurate blueprints of both residences and approximate schedules for both men would be necessary to make the hits look less suspicious. That would take time – something that the anonymous voice made clear was not in abundant supply.

Of course, there was always the car bomb – that would take out both with a single action and look more like a strike against the Consortium as a whole rather than a precision strike aimed at regime change. He wouldn’t need blueprints or daily schedules either – only a sufficient cause that would entice two of the three most cautious executives in Africa to sit in a vehicle together. It would be tricky though – because Mrs. Mutumbo would have to appear as if she’d only barely missed being taken out as well in order to keep suspicion away from any kind of internal conspiracy.

His big hands pulled out a drawer and a plastic-wrapped brick from the drawer. A single brick of C4 would be more than sufficient to take out a Triumvirate limousine – all he needed now was to decide what kind of trigger mechanism to use. He’d call Mrs. Mutumbo to set up an excuse for all three executives to be in the same vehicle at one time – and to arrange for a reason for her to climb out at just the last minute.

As if out of habit, Londele reached out and fingered the razor-sharp edge of the wide machete that he’d used during his youthful time in the rebel camps. He missed the days where the violence was up close, personal – where there was always a chance that the victim could experience a miracle and take out the attacker. There was honor in the up close and personal tactics of decades of guerilla warfare – whereas this block of C4 was sterile, without honor. It was violence for violence’s sake.

But it was what he’d been paid for – it was for that his life had been spared all those years ago. The comfortable apartment in a middle class neighborhood of Nairobi had been his salvation – and his cover. Very few would suspect the big, barrel-chested firefighter of being one of sub-Saharan Africa’s most wanted assassins. The Triumvirate had made that life possible – and he’d taken full advantage of his situation.

It was time, now, to earn the years of privilege and comfort that had been his.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Lula paced back and forth in front of the suite’s picture window that overlooked a panoramic view of the city. She would sleep on the way home – this dark and lonely moment would simply make it easier for her circadian rhythm to find its balance again after several days on the wrong side of the planet.

Besides, her stomach was in knots. Something that had always been left as a failsafe had been activated – and her world as she knew it now was on the very cusp of changing dramatically and permanently. After all, Imsi had been called and put into motion – there would most likely be some call soon from her assistant with a relayed request setting up the situation that would end in two of the Council being killed. It was what her husband had expected and yet hesitated in doing himself – the coward!

How would he accomplish the beheading of the Triumvirate, she wondered?

Still, what had her mind spinning frantically was the idea that soon SHE would have the sole control over a vast financial and corporate empire – with the authority to demand assets back from the Centre and reallocate them with the Foundation whenever she damned well pleased. There would be no more hesitation – no more waiting for the Council to meet. Her word would be law.

It was fitting. Her husband hadn’t wanted to listen to her advice when she’d seen opportunities that had escaped the notice of the Council at the time. He’d sternly told her to content herself with managing the bank that he’d built up from a modest fortune bequeathed to her by a grandfather. Women had no place in the lofty realms of power back then.

How things had changed!

When Adama had died, there had been no one within the Consortium with the least idea of how to manage such a large organization – and Shinse Olabi had been forced to look at Lula as the most likely and most capable successor. Since then, she’d worked hard to prove her worth to her male counterparts – only to watch them either prevaricate and lose one opportunity after another or take credit for ideas that were hers… HERS! They were of the old school – one that only barely noticed women as being more than walking baby factories.

How many times had they told her to wait on an investment? How many of those windows of opportunity been firmly closed by the time they decided to make a move? How many times had they taken that as a sign that Lula Mutumbo didn’t know what the hell she was talking about?

Well, not THIS time!

She’d have to bide her time – as if that were anything new – until both she and Ugo were back in Nairobi. And then…

She smiled to herself and stalked over to the sideboard, where she poured herself yet another cup of coffee. And THEN they ALL would see how well the Triumvirate could do with a woman – a smart and intelligent and ruthless woman – at the helm.

God help anyone who got in her way this time!

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

“You’re certain?”

Siskele nodded somberly. “You wanted a trace put on her phone – I took it to mean ALL her phones.”

“And who is this Imsi Londele personage?” Olabi demanded, more disappointed in being proven correct in distrusting Lula than angry at the apparent subterfuge she was attempting.

The Security Chief opened a folder he’d carried into Olabi’s office and glanced over the material – reviewing it to make sure he made no mistakes in relating facts he’d already memorized before this meeting. “Very little is known about him, sir – but a little digging has turned up some interesting information. When he was very young, he was a guerrilla fighter – one of the most vicious. In 1987, he was arrested for suspicion of murder in the death of a policeman. But the Triumvirate paid for his defense – and established him in a home on the north-west…”

“The Triumvirate!” Olabi gaped. “I knew nothing of this…”

“I’m not surprised,” Siskele answered evenly. “It took some digging, but I found the memo to my immediate predecessor from Bolo Mutumbo, ordering the Legal Department to take the case. A check of the Accounting Department’s records during that time indicate a purchase of the house Londele has been living in. And…”

“So Bolo bought his loyalty, eh?”

The Security Chief nodded. “It seems that way. Since then, however, his activities are cloudy – although I checked with some of my sources in the streets. It seems that just the mention of the name is enough to intimidate and scare the hell out of people.”

“An enforcer?” Olabi asked, his face crinkled in distaste.

Siskele shook his head. “An assassin, sir.”

Olabi sat back against the cushion of his leather chair and folded his hands over his heart. “So you’re telling me that Lula called her assistant, Chele – who then turned around and called Ismi Londele, an assassin?”

“Yes, sir.” Siskele closed the folder and slid it onto the desk in front of him. “What do you want me to do, sir?”

Shinse Olabi rose from his seat and walked slowly over to where his office window overlooked an enclosed garden setting, letting his eyes roam the green grass and take some small comfort in the steady trees. “Continue the surveillance on Mrs. Mutumbo – and put a tracer on her assistant’s phones as well. If either of them meets with someone, I want to know who and what was discussed.”

“I’d like to put extra security on you, sir,” Siskele stated firmly. “If she’s hiring an assassin, it doesn’t take much work to figure out WHO the assassin’s target or targets will be.”

“Fine.” Olabi sounded tired. “Make sure the men around her from now on are among your most trusted. 

“Nothing is going to get past me, sir,” Siskele promised. “You have my word.”

Olabi’s gaze was piercing. “I’m counting on you, Siskele. Get to the bottom of this – so that we can know what we need to do to address her presumption.”

“Yes, sir.”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

The sun wasn’t even up yet when two cars pulled into the drive and up to the security kiosk at the front gates of the Centre facility. Delgado and Langer were in the first – Chuck Seabring’s car with the trunk filled with bodies to be dispersed – and Jerry Fishbain drove the second. On the edge of the property – hidden by trees – was the third car that would be the escape vehicle to carry the trio and their payload away from a collapsed and burning edifice.

Fishbain had worked late into the night to have the IDs of the other two man altered so that the faces and thumbprints matched the men in the car. Most maintenance shifts started three hours before the more professional staff – the janitors got a head start on the day as a rule. That had worked out well for them, considering – the guards had flashlights that allowed them to compare the faces on the IDs with the faces in the car. The plan had been for them to arrive well in advance of the others – giving them more than ample time to arrange the bodies in the cars and get inside the facility itself.

Langer’s eyes were wide – Delgado was just as glad that his colleague was all the way on the other side of the car from where the guard would look in. As he handed Langer’s ID back to him and pulled the car through the slowly opening gate, he growled, “Shape up, Langer! You’re going to creep the whole thing, acting like you’re ready to jump out of your skin.”

“I know, I know…” Langer shook his head. “I don’t know what’s gotten into me, Chuck – I just have this feeling…”

“Well save it!” Delgado snapped. “We’ve planned this thing down to the second – all you have to do is play your part.”

“I know!” Langer at least sounded defensive this time – making Delgado breathe a small sigh of relief. Defensive was better than deer-in-the-headlights.

“Just think of what you’re going to do with all that money,” he soothed, steering the car through the raised gate of the parking structure and into the dim light of the chilled interior. 

Langer remained silent this time. He knew what Delgado was doing – trying to distract him from his case of nerves. Even HE was having a hard time understanding why, after all the jobs they’d pulled, he was so undone by the idea of snatching three little boys and bombing a building to cover their tracks. As Delgado said, there was a LOT of money involved – and the freedom from having to go out and earn money again for a good long time, if he played his cards carefully.

But he had to see this through first. He would snatch the second boy – the fourteen year old – from the audio-visual lab just after breakfast time and before everyone had completely settled in to work. The plasticene gun in his overalls pocket had a silencer attached, in case the boy wasn’t alone when the time came – a gun that would pass easily through the metal detectors. There was also a small vial of chloroform and a clean rag to subdue the boy himself – carrying a child through chaos-riven corridors shouldn’t call too much attention.

In his other overalls pocket was one of three control devices for the explosives – each setting off the explosives in a particular area of the facility at a different time. His control would first take out the kitchen and dining areas – a big enough bang to get the attention of everyone on the grounds and probably panic a goodly share of the professionals. He would set that one off the moment he had the boy he’d been assigned to nab in his control – setting the stage for the more public snatching of the oldest boy from a very modern and surreal laboratory in another wing. That was Delgado’s target – Fishbain was to snag the little one in the classroom not far from his at the same time. Delgado’s control would be the one to bring the entire place down when they were in the clear.

Delgado was right – the plan had been worked out and thought through and contingencies and unexpected events planned for to the best of their ability. By the time they were on their way across the grass with their captives, the building would be falling down in a burst of flame – along with the carport. It should work…

No. It WOULD work. He couldn’t afford to think anything else anymore.


	11. The Shot Heard 'Round The World

Chapter 11 – The Shot Heard 'Round the World

Sydney checked his watch for the third time and then threw an anxious look out the kitchen window toward the street. Jarod, sitting at the table and nursing a cup of coffee, chuckled. "I've never seen you this nervous before, Sydney," the Pretender commented.

"Broots promised me that he'd be here bright and early – so we could go over to Miss Parker's together," Sydney worried, then sighed and walked back to the kitchen counter and poured himself another cup of the bracing brew. "I want to get this over with."

"I'm in no hurry myself," Jarod responded quietly with a somber look on his face. "She'll be furious with you three for keeping her out of the loop – and she'll want to KILL me for dropping out of sight."

"Considering her reaction to the details about Duplicity, I'd wager that she'll be more glad to see you than pushed out of shape," Sydney countered. "I don't think she was any more happy to hear what we found out than you were."

Jarod shrugged. "What about Sam – is he going to be at her house when we get there so that he shares his proper portion of her disgust with you?"

Sydney rose again and paced forward once more to look out the window. "The plan was that we're all to meet here at eight-thirty." He threw his wrist up again. "And it's eight twenty-eight now – with no sign of either of them." He turned with a glare when he heard Jarod snicker – snicker! – from the table, and then returned to his seat. "Have you had any inspirations as to what to do for Miss Parker, at least?"

"An idea or two," Jarod chuckled again and then threw up a defensive hand at yet another glare. "C'mon Sydney – lighten up! You'd think you were an expectant father!"

"This is life and death, Jarod!" the old psychiatrist exclaimed in frustration.

"I know," Jarod put out a hand and patted the old man on the forearm. "But stressing out isn't good for you at your age…"

"I'm not THAT old," Sydney snapped and pulled his arm out of Jarod's reach. Jarod's mouth dropped open, and he'd just started to chuckle yet again when a loud knock resounded through the house. "About time!" Sydney muttered and rose to answer the door. "I was beginning to wonder," Jarod could hear him saying to whoever had knocked.

"Did he come?" It wasn't Broots after all – but Sam. Jarod stiffened – even Sydney's assurances that Sam was more a member of Miss Parker's "team" than a Centre sweeper hadn't laid fears decades in the making completely to rest.

"Inside," Sydney stated, and the pause between his statement and the sound of the front door closing bespoke of his stepping outside and looking up and down the street. "Where the Hell is Broots?"

"Knowing him, he'll be here at eight-thirty on the dot," Sam reasoned and followed Sydney around the corner to the kitchen. His gaze met and held Jarod's tightly. "Jarod - good to see you, man," he offered to the Pretender – a man whom he'd chased on foot more times than he wanted to remember.

Jarod blinked and then nodded, a little stunned. Friendly words – from a sweeper? "Sam," he acknowledged.

"There he is!" Sydney exclaimed from his spot watching out the kitchen window and then bustled over to the door. "About time! I'm supposed to be at Parker's in a little over fifteen minutes!"

"Sorry, Sydney – it couldn't be helped," Broots' voice sounded genuinely apologetic. "Debbie got a call from a friend, and you know how teenagers can be when they get on the ph…" The balding technician's excuse skidded to a halt as he stepped far enough in to see where Jarod had risen from the kitchen table. "J..Jarod. Hello."

"Hello, Mr. Broots."

"Daddy?" A very pretty and very much grown-up Debbie Broots peered past her father to the man standing in Sydney's kitchen. "That's Jarod?"

Sam frowned at Broots. "Do you know him?"

"He helped my daddy out when there was trouble at his work," Debbie offered with the innocence of the young. "You remember, Sam – the second time we played checkers? Daddy told me all about him…"

Sam flinched – he still was uncomfortable with being reminded how easily a little whippet like Debbie could clean his clock at checkers, or that the second time they'd vied over a checkerboard had proven the first to NOT be a fluke. "I remember," he growled. "So – what's the plan?"

"Now that we're all here, we should head over to Miss Parker's," Sydney stated firmly. "God only knows who much time we have…"

"Are we all going over together – or in separate cars?" Jarod asked quietly, looking from face to face.

"Separate cars," Sam nodded, deciding. "She's expecting Sydney – but not me or Broots. Or you." He gave Jarod an assessing look. "Seeing you will probably throw her for a loop."

"Maybe it will keep her from just going ahead and bringing out her gun and shooting us all where we stand," Broots asked hopefully.

"Daddy!" Debbie complained. "She's not THAT bad…"

Jarod snorted and put a hand over his mouth to keep from bursting out laughing, and even Sydney had to stifle a chuckle. "You tell him, cherie," the psychiatrist reinforced the young girl's declaration. "Now – you know what you're supposed to do?"

"Keep Evan busy while you talk to Miss Parker," Debbie chirped easily.

"Good – because he's probably not going to get that trip in to Dover this weekend," Sydney told her with a serious expression. "Something important has come up…"

Debbie nodded. "Daddy told me that you have something to tell Miss Parker that will make her unhappy. I can keep Evan out of the way – honest."

"We'd better go," Sam put out his arms as if to usher them all out of the house. "She's expecting to take off for Dover soon – and we don't need her bringing Evan over HERE to collect Sydney."

Jarod's eyebrows rose. "Oh?"

"Yeah." It was Debbie who explained. "All the good games and things to do are over THERE."

oOoOo

Miss Parker poured herself a second cup of coffee and then had to cover her mouth as another huge yawn could no longer be suppressed. "Damn!" she muttered aloud as her eyes opened once more and she turned to look at Evan. "I can't wake up this morning."

"When's Sydney coming?" the little boy asked.

"He'd better get here pretty soon – or we'll just have to go over and get him, won't we?" She smiled at her brother and sipped at the hot brew, willing it to kick in and begin to wake her up. "It isn't like him to be late…"

She stifled yet another smaller yawn as the sound of a vehicle's engine purred in close – and then was extinguished. Oddly enough, there were several others that sounded equally close when they too died away – and then came the slams of several car doors. "What the Hell?" she exclaimed in a soft whisper and then moved to her front door.

"Sydney," she greeted her old friend with a frustrated look on her face. "You're late."

"Parker…"

"What are THEY doing here?" she demanded, catching sight of Broots and Sam and Debbie moving to join the psychiatrist.

"We have something to tell you," Sydney stated softly – and the tone of his voice brought her attention back to him quickly.

Her eyes narrowed. "Sydney…"

"And we brought help," Sam told her in a no-nonsense tone that brought her gaze back up to him – and then beyond as he turned to let the man behind him join the group.

Miss Parker stared, her mouth dropping open in shock. "Jarod?"

"Hello, Miss Parker," the Pretender said gently. "It's been a long time."

"Sissy, did Sydney come?" Evan asked and then moved out from behind his sister and smiled brightly. "Debbie! Are you coming too?"

"No, Evan," Debbie said and then pushed forward and took the little boy by the hand. "My daddy has something important to talk to Miss Parker about – and he thought that you and I could play together while they talked. Is that all right with you?"

"Sissy!" Evan asked, his eyes on his sister's face. He tugged at her hand when he saw that she hadn't heard him. "Sissy! Can I play with Debbie for a little bit?"

Miss Parker's shocked stare broke finally. "Oh. Um. Yes." She smiled wanly and patted him on the shoulder. "Why don't you take her up to your room while I see what's going on here."

The two children trotted across the living room and down the hallway to the bedrooms while Miss Parker still stood in the open doorway. "Can we come in?" Broots finally asked in a tiny voice.

Silently she stood back and aside so that the four men at her doorway could troop through and into the house. Jarod was the last – and it was to him that she finally hissed, "You have a lot of nerve coming over like this – as if we're old friends having a friendly reunion!"

"It wasn't my idea," Jarod answered her evenly. "It was Sydney's."

"Sydney…" She pronounced his name like a threat and turned a blood-chilling glare in the older man's direction.

"Sit down, Miss Parker," Sam took charge before she could fly into the psychiatrist's face. "There's something we need to talk about – something important."

She whirled on her personal sweeper. "So important that you had to call in JAROD of all people?"

"He called me, Parker," Sydney admitted softly. "He'd found out about Duplicity somehow."

"Fitting that Mr. Raines couldn't be content with playing God only twice in his life," Jarod commented dryly.

"You shut up! The last person I want to hear from right now is YOU. As far as it goes, I should be hauling your sorry ass into the Centre right now!" she spat at him. "That, at least, would get Nosferatu off my back…"

"You don't want to do that, Miss Parker," Broots chimed in with a diminished voice, "at least, not until after we tell you…"

Miss Parker flounced herself into the cushions of the couch and then waved her hand around to indicate that the others should seat themselves. "So – what the Hell is so important that you have to call in a fugitive…"

"Your life is in danger, Miss Parker," Sydney began lamely and then glanced at Sam. "Sam…"

"Oh for God's sake, give me a break!" she exclaimed and then couldn't help the yawn. "My whole frigging life is in danger everyday, boys – I work for the Centre, just like you do…" Her snapping grey eyes landed on Jarod. "Well, like MOST of you do…"

"Miss Parker." Sam's still, dark and somber intonation of her name brought her gaze back to him. "You need to listen. This is important!"

"You haven't told me anything I didn't already know," she growled.

"Several weeks ago, we had that anniversary banquet in Dover – remember?"

Finally Miss Parker's frustration slipped slightly, and she nodded. "OK – yeah. What about it?"

"Well, while I was out taking a breather, I overheard something – two men were discussing their plans to bring the Centre down…"

"Bring the Centre down?" She stared at him incredulously and then threw her head back and laughed. "That's rich. Better men have tried…"

"And they said very plainly that there was only one obstacle to their plans – and it was you. Whichever one was in charge said that if you started digging where you weren't wanted, the best way to handle it was to take you out completely. The other said he knew how to make it look like an accident…"

"You're serious?"

"Miss Parker, surely even you've noticed how there are a lot of little things going very wrong at the Centre lately," Broots piped up, "up to and including that fraudulent expense report that got you and Mr. Lyle in hot water with Mr. Raines. Haven't you wondered WHY a few hundred dollars more here or there on an expense report would set Mr. Raines on that kind of rampage?"

"Or why looking into the matter and beginning to unravel the fraud would get an auditor from our own accounting department killed in his office?" Sydney added grimly, "or why suddenly someone was stopping Evan on the sports field to threaten you?"

"And then, when we were looking in the computer yesterday, we set off several alarms…" Broots told her. "You weren't paying attention, I know – but…"

"Those weren't all that important…" she hissed defensively.

"Yes, they were, Miss Parker," Broots's serious tone and face convinced her that he wasn't just being hysterical. "Each of those document pointed a finger at a very unlikely person – someone in the ideal position to bring the Centre down from the inside."

Her manicured brows climbed her forehead. "You think… whatzizname in Accounting…?"

"Think of it, Miss Parker," Jarod chimed in finally, "what better way to do in the Centre than from the inside, and what better position to manage such a feat than the financial heart of the organization? For God knows how long, these people could have been tinkering with the finances – draining contingency accounts, seeing to it bills aren't paid, materials aren't ordered or the wrong parts are ordered, imaginary expenses are charged… Surely you don't think your project was the only one being fleeced?"

"But…" Miss Parker rubbed her eyes in an attempt to make her brain follow all of the information. "doing it that way would take months – years! The Centre has been incredibly profitable – even since your escape, Jarod. It would take more than just a tweaking of a number here or there or an expense report falsified…"

"There's nothing that says that this hasn't been going on a long time, Miss Parker, long enough to have quietly siphoned away a good deal of the money." Broots told her.

"My efforts at relieving the Centre of its ill-gotten gains back when I was dealing with the Centre and its behavior regularly probably just helped matters along down the road to collective ruin," Jarod admitted with a touch of chagrin. "I played right into the hands of men determined to do the Centre ill."

Broots nodded "But now, maybe, things are getting down to the wire…"

Miss Parker rallied herself enough to glare at Sydney. "So why didn't you tell me when you first started to suspect?"

"Because of the nature of the threat, Parker," Sydney reasoned with an even voice that belied the twisting in his stomach. "If we told you that you had to stop digging into things, all that would have happened would have been your digging into things that much more deeply and quickly to try to beat them at their own game. We were already uncovering things that people didn't want discovered – and we found Duplicity, didn't we?"

"How can I protect myself if I don't know where a threat is coming from – much less that there IS a threat?" she demanded coldly. "And besides, you'd think even YOU would know by now that the best way to face down a potential threat is straight on…"

"It was Broots' and my idea," Sam stated firmly. "Sydney was all for telling you right away…"

The sweeper's words did nothing to placate her. "But he agreed with you in the end?" she asked with her glare turned on full-blast on her oldest and most intimate friend and colleague. "Still keeping secrets, eh, Syd?"

"Miss Parker…" Jarod's voice called to her as if from a distance. "How you got to this point is moot. The issue now before us is what to do about it." He frowned as the telephone began to ring.

"'Before US', Franken-boy? Who says that any of YOU will be the ones to do anything?" Miss Parker growled and rose to answer the telephone – deliberately walking with the cordless receiver into the back of her house so as not to be overheard.

Broots gazed at Sydney with a look of relief on his face. "Well, that went better than I expected…"

Sydney only shook his head. "This is far from over, Broots," he cautioned. "I don't think we've heard it all yet."

"She does seem to be more wanting to blame YOU than either of us," Sam noted. "She expect more from you or something?"

Before Sydney could answer, Miss Parker returned to the living room, her face a study in frustration and impatience. "That was the Centre, boys – I've been summoned back in for an interview with Nosferatu." She swayed slightly, as if momentarily dizzy. "Shit – and I don't even feel well." She sighed. "I guess Evan will have to wait for his trip to Dover…" her eyes landed hard on Sydney's, "…and we'll just have to see if its going to be just the two of us, or if we'll have company." She swayed again and leaned into the door jamb for stability.

"On Saturday?" Sam gaped. "Even Raines knows better than to pull that kind of stunt. The last time, the Centre grapevine took weeks to recover from all the rumors about the explosion in Raines' office…"

Jarod's eyes were glued to Miss Parker, taking in the fact that she looked as if she hadn't slept a wink all night and was literally ready to drop. "Are you all right, Miss Parker?"

"I'm fine," she growled at him, the glared at the others. "If you don't mind playing babysitter to these ninnies, I'll run into the Centre real fast and take care of this…" She yawned widely. "After I have a little more coffee, that is. I can't wake up this morning…"

The alarms were ringing loudly in Jarod's mind, and his brows furled as Sam's words kicked his mind into gear. "You say that these men said that an accident could be arranged?"

"And that it should be done so as to cause as few waves as possible," Sam nodded.

"That's what I thought," Jarod's face wrinkled and he moved hastily to the door.

"Where are you going?" Broots asked in sudden concern.

Jarod merely pulled the door open. "To check out a theory – and you can pray that I'm wrong." He pointed. "Sit down, Miss Parker – you're not going anywhere yet."

"Just who the Hell do you think…"

"Do it, Parker," Jarod frowned at her. "Something doesn't feel right – and I don't want you rushing off only to find that "accident" they've arranged for you just down the road to the Centre."

"Fine. Whatever." Miss Parker sat down heavily on the couch and sighed loudly. "Just hurry it up, Jarod. I have places to go, people's heads to bite off…"

oOoOo

The silencer spat three times, and the three adults in the room dropped to the floor almost immediately. The little boy in the chair at the table flinched heavily and then looked up into the face of the blue-garbed man with curiosity and a hint of fright. "Are they dead?" the child asked evenly.

"Come with me," Langer growled instead, and stepped in close enough to grab the boy by the elbow and drag him to his feet. "You're going to be taking a little trip…"

The child looked up into the strange face with a little more trepidation, but refrained from causing a fuss – and Langer couldn't help but wonder at the kind of upbringing would result in a child perfectly willing to go with a stranger that had just slaughtered people in front of him. He reached his hand into the pocket of his overalls and pushed the button on his control device – and then herded the boy into a corner as the low rumble of a small explosion sounded from outside the audio-visual lab. There he quickly removed the janitorial overalls, uncovering a cheap dress suit that matched that worn by many here.

"Don't make a sound or give me any trouble," he threatened the child by waving the silenced gun in front of his face, "or you'll end up like them. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir," the boy answered in a remarkably even tone. "Is this a SIM, sir?"

Langer frowned. "A what?" He took tight hold of the boy's elbow and pulled him out into the corridor, where many of the people were already moving at a very fast walk if not a trot. "C'mon."

The boy seemed to sense the man's desire for no conversation, for he fell silent and moved with this stranger's hand at his elbow just as he moved for all the other big men in his life. Even the tight grip didn't cause him to grimace – he'd grown used to having many of the nerves in that joint pinched. Actually, he looked around himself at the expressions of unease and sometimes shock and was thankful that he'd been released from yet another day of vocabulary drill in Pa-Ruski.

Today, for all that it had started in the same way every other day in his life had started, looked as if it would actually be different. Different, that was, until a low and threatening voice had his guardian stopped dead in his tracks:

"What the Hell do you think you're doing with that boy?"

Delgado left his cart the moment he heard the low rumbling from the kitchen area and, pulling his silenced gun from his overalls, made quick tracks down the corridor toward the double doors behind which his target had just been taken. He could hear Fishbain's footfalls directly behind him and then turn off at a doorway very close by. The two of them exchanged a glance before both of them shot out the locks of the doors and burst through into the room beyond.

The SIM Lab was already well-populated for that early in the morning. The boy – a young man, really – was already pacing back and forth in front of a whiteboard that was covered by incomprehensible mathematical equations. Seated at a table in front of him was a grey-haired man with whom Delgado had seen the boy several times. A bodyguard near the door wasn't quick enough – and fell to Delgado's first bullet. Then the older gentleman fell face-forward into the table – and finally a quick trio of bullets took out the observation glass and then the two black gentlemen who had sat hidden behind it.

"Move!" He motioned to the young man with the gun, already peeling his overalls back after retrieving the control device for the main explosion from his pocket.

"What's going on?" the young man demanded imperiously.

"Shut up, if you know what's good for you," Delgado scowled and thrust the gun forward until the heated muzzle was only inches away from the young man's forehead. "Say another word, and they'll find your brains sprayed all over the wall."

The young man decided that perhaps now was NOT the time to attempt to rebel. He nodded his understanding to the stranger, who finished shedding the overalls to uncover a suit of clothing that made him look very much like the other sweepers in the building. It was a clever ruse, the young man thought even as his arm was grasped painfully at the elbow to steer him just slightly in front of his new guardian.

Delgado saw with satisfaction that Fishbain had also overpowered his target and gotten the boy into the hallway. "Showtime!" he muttered with a cold smile and pushed the first of three buttons on his control device – and then dragged at his captive as the sounds of yet another explosion ripped the building in the front.

"Move!"

"You too," he heard Fishbain hiss. Together the two men ushered their captives toward the sweeper's lounge – and the doorway to an outdoor landscaped exercise area beyond.

"Where's Langer?" Fishbain exclaimed in dismay as they gained the double glass door exit and found that they were the only two people in the room.

"We don't have time to worry about him," Delgado growled and thrust the young man in his grasp through the door. "He knows the escape route – either he'll get here on time or he won't." He threw up his wrist and studied his digital watch. "He has thirty seconds before we have to bring the place down."

oOoOo

"As I thought," Jarod announced grimly as he strode back into the house. He looked over at Sam. "An accident – a carefully arranged, "supposed" accident."

Sam caught his breath. "The car…"

"Jarod," Sydney held his breath.

"The brake line is nearly disconnected – and just minimal driving will drain all the brake fluid in about three minutes. The accelerator is also jimmied." Jarod looked down at Miss Parker, who was blinking her eyes and trying to focus. "Look at her," he ordered and pointed. "She looks drugged. That's what clued me in. You were right, Broots, Sam – whoever it was that labeled her an obstacle to be removed has made his move."

"Nonsense," Miss Parker stated in slow-motion. "I've been drinking coffee all morning…"

The Pretender turned to his former mentor. "How many people knew what Miss Parker's plans were for this weekend?"

Sydney shrugged. "Any number of them, I'd guess – up to and including Mr. Raines."

"So it's logical that whoever drugged her and sabotaged her car is fully expecting not only Miss Parker to have her "accident", but for Evan and maybe even you to be in the car with her?"

"Man!" Broots breathed. "We would have never thought…"

"But we foiled the plan," Sam complained. "She's safe again – for the time being." He crossed his arms over his chest and kept his eyes glued to Jarod's face. "Right?"

Jarod was shaking his head. "If we don't give these people what they want – an "accident" – then they're going to KEEP coming after her until they finally get her. She's an obstacle and a threat until she's gone."

"You don't think that's the reason she's been called back to the Centre – to make SURE she gets in the car to drive while she's drugged?" Sydney asked, aghast.

"More than likely."

"So what are we going to do?" Sam demanded, his heavy dark brows beginning to knit together in frustration.

Jarod looked into the sweeper's face with a brittle smile. "We give them what they're expecting."

"WHAT?" Sydney grabbed his former protégé's arm hard. "We're going to give them an accident?"

"I'm not going to have an accident," Miss Parker drawled from her spot on the couch and waved a finger at nobody. "I'll have you know I'm a good driver…"

"Normally you are, Parker," Jarod nodded and moved to sit next to her. "But they've rigged it to look like you've been drinking – and probably just killed yourself running into a power pole on the way to the Centre."

"Explain yourself, Jarod," Sam growled.

Jarod looked up and into the worried and frustrated faces around him. "The only way these people will back off is if they think they've accomplished their goal."

"You don't know that!" Broots objected – then backed down as the Pretender turned serious eye on him.

"A person doesn't have to be a Pretender to know the way a quality assassin sets up his scene. The work on the car is a masterpiece – designed to look like equipment failure rather than sabotage," Jarod countered with more patience than he knew he'd had. He looked down at his huntress with sympathy. "Looks like you're finally going to get free of the Centre, Miss Parker- just not the way you thought you would…"

"And just how the Hell do you think you're going to be able to accomplish this?" Sydney demanded angrily. "You can't kill Miss Parker to keep her from being killed!"

"That's the beauty of this," Jarod seemed to agree with his old mentor. "The only people who will know that she's not dead will be us – but the Centre, and her enemies inside it, will think she is."

Sydney shook his head in denial. "It's impossible!"

Jarod's smile grew. "Not really." He turned to Sam. "Go bring me the rest of the coffee she made this morning – and the can of coffee. We need to figure out what she's been given first before we can proceed." He then looked at his former mentor. "And tell me, Sydney – do you still have an active medical license that allows you to write prescriptions?"

oOoOo

The explosion from the front of the building threw the sweeper who was accosting Langer completely off his feet. "I was ordered to make sure of this boy's safety," he said quickly, taking advantage of the situation, "getting him back to his space. You'd better see what's going on…"

The sweeper frowned, but the urgency of the situation elsewhere drove him to make a snap decision. "Well," he began, then shook his head. "Fine. Report to your regular station when you have him safely away."

"Yes, sir," Langer answered in the brisk style the military had drilled into his so long ago. The grip he had on the boy's arm tightened again, and he began once more to move.

"The living quarters are THAT way," the sweeper pointed down a corridor leading off to the right of where the three were standing.

"That's right…" Langer gave the man a shaky smile that would hopefully convince the sweeper of his telling the truth. "Thanks." He pulled at the boy and began down the corridor that had been pointed out.

He walked down the corridor until he could no longer feel the man's eyes boring holes into the back of his head, then immediately did an about-face that nearly pulled the boy from his feet. "C'mon," he urged and checked his watch on his other arm and grimaced. He had less than a minute to reach the exit before there would BE no exit for him.

oOoOo

"But I thought we were going to go to Dover!" Evan whined as he watched Sam and the man they called Jarod help his sister out her front door.

"Your sister got a call from the Centre," Sydney explained patiently, "and she has to go back in to work for a bit." He hated lying to the boy – the next few days would be very hard for him – but there was really no help for it. A grieving little brother would be essential to making the illusion even more real for those who were awaiting a death.

Debbie wasn't convinced either by the simplistic explanation she'd received for why Jarod and Sam were taking an obviously ill Miss Parker in to work. "Daddy…" she began in her turn.

"Not now, Debbie," Broots shushed at her in uncharacteristic brusqueness. Although he trusted Sam to take care of Miss Parker with his life, Jarod's connection to his prickly boss was more of a mystery. He looked over at Sydney and realized that the older man was going to be grieving too – despite knowing that Miss Parker wouldn't really be dying in the crash.

After all, Jarod was supposedly very much in control of the situation – a fact that usually assured success even in some of the most impossible circumstances. A bit of simple sleuthing – simple by Pretender standards, that is – had led Jarod to the substance that had rendered Miss Parker almost reeling drunk. Once that had been determined, Sydney had followed Jarod's orders and taken a quick trip to the pharmacy to fill the prescription that Jarod had requested – and then overseen the dosing of the already drugged woman. The additional chemicals would be the miracle-workers – slowing the heartbeat and respiration until they were virtually non-existent in order simulate death. It was obvious Sydney knew better than most just how dangerous Jarod's plan was – just how easy it would be for the illusion to suddenly and tragically become reality – and his fear showed easily.

What hurt most was that Debbie would be heartbroken – over the years, she and Miss Parker had developed a very close relationship and, like Evan, she couldn't be allowed "in" on the planning. All she knew was that Miss Parker wasn't feeling well – and that the trip to Dover would have been called off anyway, had the call in to work not come.

The plan was breathtakingly simple – Jarod would drive the crippled Boxster and, the moment he suspected the sabotaged accelerator and brakes were ready to fail, he'd stop, climb out, aim it into a telephone pole and put it back into gear with a stick on the accelerator pedal. It would be Sam and Jarod together who would put Miss Parker – now virtually insensate from her dual chemical dosings – into the driver's seat reeking of alcohol and then administer to her the contusion on the head that would ostensibly be ruled the cause of death. Sam would then be the one to call the ambulance as a concerned passerby in order to make Miss Parker's death official and then about an hour later call the Centre to report the accident and Miss Parker's death – Jarod would hurry into Blue Cove to take his place as the "substitute coroner" and receive the body. He'd fill out the necessary paperwork and then spirit Miss Parker away from Blue Cove.

If it worked – IF it worked – the Centre grapevine on Monday morning would be filled with rumors about Miss Parker's old drinking habits and her notorious driving. And with any luck at all, Sydney would get a telephone call letting them know obliquely that Miss Parker had been safely delivered both from her Centre prison and the plot against her – but not to expect anything much before Sunday night.

It was going to be a damned long weekend – that was all. Broots sagged against the mantle in Miss Parker's living room. Too damned long.

oOoOo

Langer coughed and pushed the choking boy forward through the dust that seemed to be filling the corridors now as they headed toward the side wing and the sweeper's lounge. The boy tripped over his feet and would have fallen but for the iron grasp on his arm – and finally gave a grunt of pain as the tight grip of the stranger nearly dislocated his elbow.

"Don't stop!" he choked and dragged the boy along, heedless of the child's struggle to breathe. There it was – the double doors that signaled the sweeper's lounge. He put on a final burst of speed and pushed through them.

"About damned time," Delgado snarled, his captive already subdued with the chloroform and draped over his shoulder in a fireman's carry. Fishbain too had an unconscious boy in his arms.

Langer sighed – this could have gone better. "At least I made it," he coughed harshly. "I got stopped…"

"Talk later. Use the chloroform and take him out, and we're gone!" Delgado barked. "We're at zero hour."

Langer broke the vial wrapped within the rag and pulled it out to put it over the boy's face. "Sorry," he stated with genuine regret even as the boy suddenly sagged in his grasp. He hefted the boy up into another fireman's carry and moved to join his colleagues. "Ready."

"Alleluia," Fishbain remarked and pushed through the glass doors first with Langer following close behind. A few steps behind was Delgado – and it was when the three reached the small grove of trees ten yards out that he pushed down on the second button on his control.

And the world suddenly rocked, and the men staggered to keep their balance.

oOoOo

Horace Evanston reached out and grabbed the wall to keep from being thrown almost completely to the floor as a third explosion tore through the building. Ahead of him only a few yards, the ceiling tiles and cement beams above them crashed to the ground, bringing up a cloud of dust and dirt that made him choke. All around him, he could hear the screams of those who hadn't been lucky enough to be out of the way and had been hit by the falling debris.

Some of the sweepers who were relatively uninjured began to trickle out of the doorways, wild-eyed and obviously looking for some way to get away from whatever fate was ready to deal. Some of the support staff – assistants and janitors – were pushing their way toward the front entrance – the only one kept open and unlocked during the day shift.

"Stay at your posts!" Evanston shouted, to no avail. Not a single person was listening to him – the will and need to survive outweighing any authority standing in the way. He grabbed at the arm of the closest sweeper, only to be nearly jerked off his feet when the man simply pulled away and continued on his determined drive out and away.

It only took a few minutes, but then Evanston was standing in an empty corridor, listening to the sounds of distant chaos and suffering. Then a thin cry began to sound from one of the training rooms between himself and the collapsed building – and he felt himself drawn to investigate.

Inside a completely demolished classroom was a small child – one of the boys the facility had been built to house and train. The child's head was awash in blood from a gash over one eye, and the desk at which the boy had been sitting had been hit by a piece of falling cement so that it had collapsed and trapped the child's legs. Dark eyes filled with terror and pain pleaded with the administrator for rescue. Evanston felt his heart go out to this boy – one of the tinier subjects – Pisces, he guessed – for being abandoned by nearly everyone he knew, for on the ground only a meter or so away from the boy was the body of one of the psychiatrist-mentors assigned to the project. The man was very obviously dead – his face a mass of bloody and mangled flesh.

Evanston glanced about in concern that actually entering the demolished room might trigger even more collapse – but then rushed over to the injured child. "Hang on," he shushed at the boy, whose arms immediately reached up. "Let me get this away from you…"

It took effort spurred by adrenaline, but after a couple of lifts, Evanston had the chunk of concrete shifted off of the desk and could begin to disentangle the child from the furniture. The boy whimpered quietly, but otherwise was silent in the face of what must have been fairly painful manipulation of bruised and contused limbs – and then was free. Evanston lifted the child up into his arms, aware and concerned that the child was so small and light, and rushed to the corridor again.

His mind spinning, Evanston rushed through the empty corridors, and then remembered the exit in the sweeper's wing. It lead not to open country, but rather to a wonderfully landscaped exercise yard surrounded by a brick wall – but it WAS an exit from the building nonetheless. AND it was closer than any main entrance. He turned a corner and began to run.

oOoOo

"She has to hit her head hard on the steering wheel, to make the contusion realistic," Jarod told Sam somberly.

The sweeper stared at him. "If you think…"

"What do you want," Jarod demanded harshly, "to slam her head against the steering wheel and make the accident look good, or attend her funeral sometime in the near future?"

"But WE could kill her," Sam countered angrily, pointing to a woman who already looked virtually dead.

Jarod shook his head. "Not if we do it right," he stated with a tone of assurance. "I can do it, if you don't want to…"

"SHIT!" Sam stomped away from where Jarod had expertly crashed the Boxster into a telephone pole, leaving just enough room to make it possible to access the driver's seat. "You're not giving me much choice…"

"We don't have one!" Jarod growled in a low and harsh voice. "Either we make her look dead now, or she will BE dead soon enough. What do you want it to be?"

"You do it." Sam frowned. "You've probably been wanting to punch her one for everything she's done to you – here's your chance. But…" the sweeper added, coming up to nearly nose to nose with the Pretender with real violence in his eyes, "…if you DO kill her…"

Jarod nodded, not needing to hear the rest. He didn't like what had to be done any more than Sam did – but he could sympathize with the sweeper not wanting to be the one to actually injure Miss Parker. There was no help for it, however. He bent into the driver's space, taking hold of Miss Parker's head and, after carefully eyeing the steering wheel, propelled it forward hard so that it slammed into the thick bone just above her eye socket. The laceration bled a little – but the drugs in her system kept her heart rate suppressed so that it wasn't gushing like a normal head wound would.

Jarod felt for her pulse and waited. Yes, there was one of the few beats of her heart. When she came around – after being pronounced dead by him and issued a death certificate and then spirited out of the coroner's office – she'd have one helluva headache and need a couple of stitches close enough to her eyebrows for the scar to be mostly hidden when healed.

When he straightened, he felt Sam directly behind him. "Is it done?"

Instead of answering, Jarod merely stepped aside so that the big man could see what he'd done. Sam's quick intake of breath told the story – as did the panicked look on the man's face when he put his hand up to her neck and felt no discernable pulse. "Are you SURE you didn't kill her?"

"Her heart is only beating four or five times a minute," Jarod reminded him. "Enough to just keep her alive, but not enough that a more casual exam would find her living. We have to count on the fact that the locals won't be that discriminatory – they'll feel for a pulse and, like you, not find one. What's more, they'll smell her – and the booze we had her rinse her mouth out with and sprinkled all over her clothing should be a clincher for the cause of the accident in their minds."

"Fine." Sam didn't like it, but the plan DID seem to be virtually foolproof. No wonder the Centre had spent so much money trying to get this man back in their control – the planning and strategy he could produce on a moments notice… "Now what?"

Jarod pulled Sam's arm to get him away from the car. "Now YOU call the police – tell them you saw her hit the pole – and then WE get the hell out of here. Drop me in town near the police station – which is across the street from the coroner's office."

"How are you…" Sam began.

"Don't ask," Jarod warned him with a quick frown. "After all these years, I'd just as soon not start giving out all my secrets."

oOoOo

"Let me get over the wall first," Delgado ordered and then pulled himself up on top of the cement block barrier that surrounded the exercise area. Once up, he turned and reached down. "Hand me the oldest kid first."

Fishbain and Langer manhandled the limp form of the young man to where Delgado could hoist it up over the wall and then drop him carefully to the ground on the other side. "Here's the next one," Langer panted as he and Fishbain hoisted the smaller boy up to Delgado.

"Lemme go over and get him," Fishbain said and followed statement with action. He dropped to the other side of the wall and then put up his arms to catch the boy and lay him on the ground not far from the first.

"OK Dave," Delgado reached down again. "Now the last one."

Langer hefted the boy he'd escorted out up to Delgado and then, like Fishbain, pulled himself up and over the wall so as to catch the child as he was dangled over the other side. Delgado waited for his colleagues to pull the body of the oldest out of the way slightly so that he too could finish his hurdle.

"We haven't much time before the Forest Service sees the smoke on the horizon and comes to investigate," he the moment his feet hit the ground, "and we have a mile of forest to get through before we get to where we left our van. Let's move it."

"Forgetting something?" Langer answered with a jerk of the head toward the wall and the partially demolished building behind them.

"Oh yeah." Delgado's face mirrored his chagrin as he pulled the control from the pocket of his jacket one last time. "Say "sayonara," suckers," he grinned and held the control up high enough to be over the top of the wall and pushed the final button. The pillar of flames was easily visible over the top of the trees as he bent to hoist his charge back up into a fireman's carry and lead the way off into the thick pine forest.

oOoOo

Jarod easily picked the lock on the Blue Cove Coroner's office and slipped inside without anyone seeing him. It was a Saturday – under normal circumstances, the office was deserted, just as he'd planned. In a long-ago SIM, he'd learned that the local police switchboard would make a token call to this office before attempting to page a coroner from home – as part of the SIM had involved faking a death and acquiring all of the relevant paperwork without the authorities themselves being much the wiser. It had brought down a thirteen year old's estimation of the police – but the planning that had gone into the SIM was now standing him in good stead.

The phone jangled – just as he'd expected. Donning latex gloves, Jarod reached for the receiver. "Coroner's Office," he answered officiously.

There was a pause on the other end of the line, and then an obviously confused police officer asked, "Dick?"

"This is Dr. Jarod Hyde," Jarod answered sanguinely. "Dick had some personal matters he had to take care of and asked me to finish up some paperwork that he didn't get through last night. What can I do for you?"

"Well, this is Varens with the BCPD. We got a DB out on Route 1," the officer announced curtly. "We're gonna need a pick up and post-mortem."

"Route 1? I'm on my way," Jarod answered and hung up the phone. Grimly he smiled to himself as he grabbed the keys to the coroner's van from the key holder near the door – a keyring that he noticed also included keys to the office itself. Everything was working according to the SIM – it was all too easy.

oOoOo

Evanston was halfway to the trees when the final explosion blew him completely off his feet. He twisted as he fell so that his full weight didn't fall on the child he held in his arms, and with horror watched as the fireball that engulfed the entire building behind him rose higher and higher. From his vantage point, it seemed as if every last inch of the construction had been targeted in the bombing – for what else could it have been?

He didn't want to stick around to see if there were mercenaries waiting to see if any rats had managed to escape the sinking ship, however. Something told him that those who had tried to escape through the main exit into the parking structure may not have made it away before the place had blown – in which case only HE had escaped the structure unharmed.

The Centre had many enemies, he knew this as a fact; but never in his wildest imagination had he ever considered those enemies to be courageous enough – have the guts – to directly target and take out a full Centre facility. His role as administrator of the place was well-known, Evanston realized with an even more hollow and sinking feeling in his stomach as he watched the flames. If word were to get out that he'd escaped the fate all the others had suffered…

He rose to his feet and pulled the toddler back up in his arms. If his memory served, there was a wall around the yard – but two years ago, he'd had a section of it taken down and a steel gate put in to provide for fire access to Centre water supplies in case of forest fire. At the time, it had been a safety issue – now, key to the gate on his main keyring in his trousers pocket, it was his ticket to escape.

He turned south and began to trot toward where he thought the gate would be. He could follow the wall until he found it – but one way or the other, this was the last time he'd be up in these woods again.

oOoOo

"Did you find any identification?" Jarod asked of the Officer Varens, who averted his head as he pulled Miss Parker's limp form from where he'd placed it behind the wheel.

"Name's Melissa Parker – she's one of those Centre folks," Varens held out Miss Parker's purse with a hand still garbed in the traditional latex glove of a police investigation. "We've tangled with her a couple of times – her boyfriend was murdered a few years back, and we've given her some warnings about drinking and driving…" He sniffed. "Evidently she didn't listen to them…"

Jarod sighed dramatically. "They rarely do," he commiserated. He carefully placed Miss Parker's form on the gurney within the open confines of the black plastic body bag and then zipped it closed. "I'll get her back to the barn – but I doubt there's any question about how this one happened."

"Such a pretty lady," Varens commented quietly, almost to himself.

"Yeah," Jarod agreed. "I wonder if she has any family?"

Varens just shrugged. "I'll tell my captain that you'll get the paperwork over to him ASAP." He patted Jarod companionably on the back. "Just the way you wanted to be spending your weekend, I bet – autopsying a pretty dead woman."

"Ah well," Jarod shrugged back, "comes with the job." He walked around to the front of the car. "Works at the Centre, huh? Maybe they know more about how to contact her family…"

"Probably." Varens wasn't paying much attention to him anymore – the tow truck had finally arrived. "Over here, Lem," he beckoned with his hand.

Jarod pulled up onto the road and swung the coroner's van around to head back to Blue Cove. "Come on, Miss Parker," he said gently to the quiet form in the back of the van, "your first step to freedom from the Centre is taken at last."

oOoOo

Sam opened the door to Miss Parker's house and then closed it behind himself.

"Is it done?" Sydney asked quietly.

"Yeah," he answered, a hollow feeling in the bottom of his stomach. "I dropped Jarod at the coroner's, to take care of Phase Two."

"Geez!" Broots breathed as he rose from the couch and came over to join them. "When I got up this morning…"

"I know," Sydney stated with a pat on the shoulder for his friend. "I suppose we should break the news…"

Sam had moved further into the house until he could see where Debbie and Evan were playing cards at the kitchen table. "Let's wait for a little bit," he countered, a hand up to prevent Sydney from coming any closer. "Wait for the police to call – and then we can say that we genuinely got the news that way."

"I hate lying to Deb," Broots whispered vehemently.

"I hate lying to Evan too," Sydney whispered back, "but a few days of grief is worth her being able to be around to raise him…"

"Won't he return to his foster parents?" Broots frowned.

Sydney shook his head. "No. Miss Parker and I discussed this a long time ago. We decided that if anything should happen to her, I would retire, adopt the boy myself and raise him properly somewhere where the Centre ISN'T."

Sam just sighed and walked over to the front window, running his fingers through his short and dark hair. "Its going to be a long day."

"Yeah," Broots agreed, slumping back down onto the couch.

Sydney walked over to the mantle where Miss Parker had kept all of her favorite family photos and picked up the one where Catherine and a very young Miss Parker were laughing together. He felt the burn of repressed tears in the back of his head and bit down on his lower lip to keep them at bay. She was still alive, he reassured himself silently.

So why did he feel as if his world had just fallen in?

oOoOo

Willy was stunned – and more than a little concerned. The two calls had come into the Centre switchboard virtually at the same time, and both messages needed to be given to Mr. Raines at once – and both pieces of news would be immensely unwelcome.

Still he had a job to do. Willy ran a conscientious hand over his short and curly coif and then straightened his tie and jacket. It wouldn't do for him to look jangled or disconcerted by the news he carried – after all, it didn't affect HIM in the least except in the way it affected Mr. Raines' ability to control and direct the power of the Centre. And there was no way in Hell that he'd miss Miss Parker's continually abrasive and obstructive presence…

His preparations complete, he threw back his shoulders and walked over to the etched glass doors to knock gently before pushing one open. "Sir?"

Raines looked up at him with eyes that seemed even more sunken than usual. "What?" he rasped after a noisy draw on the oxygen tank.

Willy took a quiet, deep breath and walked into the room, the papers he held in his hand completely steady and unshaking. He handed the papers to his boss. "There's been some bad news…"


	12. Shell Game

Chapter 12 – Shell Game

Jarod stood stoically by as William Raines and his ever-present sweeper Willy followed him into the viewing room. The Pretender willed his face to show absolutely nothing of the dread and fear that was roiling around in his stomach at the close proximity to those who would do him nothing but harm if they knew who he was. Sam's call, warning him that Raines was determined to verify Miss Parker's demise in person, had come just in time for him to dash to his car and throw on what he hoped would be a convincing disguise – complete with glasses and moustache. It had been years since he'd worked a Pretend with a pathologist by the name of Van der Loek, but he had found the man's mannerisms so intriguing that he'd not had to search very deep to find a persona that would hide his own effectively.

He'd had several long minutes to psychologically prepare himself and slip as fully as he could into the Van der Loek character – and still found he had to work very hard not to break character at the first sight of Raines' gaunt face coming through the door. However it soon became obvious that the two weren't expecting subterfuge or deception from a lowly coroner, and they only gave him a perfunctory and dismissive glance before busying themselves with looking through the window that looked into the morgue itself. Slowly Jarod had forced himself to relax into his Pretend to an extent he hadn't had to do for a very long time – virtually immersing himself in a foreign persona to the point that Jarod AS Jarod was completely subsumed and only Van der Loek existed.

"If you'll wait here," he stated in an almost exaggerated nasal New England twang and a lower tone that sounded very little like his regular speaking voice, "I'll bring the body to the viewing window."

"Be quick about it," Raines snapped and then gasped noisily as he pulled life-giving oxygen through his plastic umbilicus. "I have arrangements to make if it's really her…"

"Arrangements have already been made, sir," Jarod informed the skeletal Centre Chairman just before he ducked into the morgue. "The funeral home arrangements were made by the deceased previously – and her lawyer has already been informed and put her plans into motion." He stopped and allowed himself one very satisfied nod. "According to her wishes, Miss Parker's remains will be cremated by the end of the day…"

"Impossible!" Raines sputtered and wheezed.

"Don't kill the messenger," Jarod shrugged at him. "I'm just a coroner," he affirmed in his deep twang. His hands fluttered in a subtlely effeminate gesture that, as he'd expected, won him a slight frown of disgust and just a bit more distance. "You'll have to take up any disagreements with Miss Parker's lawyer. He was the one who brought in the paperwork authorizing transfer of the body to the mortuary."

Willy made a potentially threatening movement toward Jarod that Raines thwarted with a frustrated gesture. "Let's just get this over," the Chairman ordered breathily.

With that, Jarod stepped through the morgue doorway – taking comfort in the click of the lock as the door closed behind him – then moved to the pair of doors that constituted the tiny morgue's cooler. The chrome refrigeration unit sat directly next to the window, and Jarod pulled out the metal shelf on which he'd carefully settled Miss Parker after applying the kind of makeup that would make her look only that much more deceased. Her face, neck and upper torso now had a decidedly cyanotic blue hue – and her lips were a disgusting and necrotic-looking purple. The gash that he'd caused on her forehead gaped bloodlessly, completing the image of death – a very convincing image, even if Jarod did say so himself.

"Damn!" he heard Raines mutter under his breath, and Jarod had to work hard to restrain the smirk of victory. Both the disguise and the ruse were working – and Raines was buying the act hook, line and sinker.

The Pretender let his eyes touch the pale ice gaze of his former tormentor. "Will there be anything else?" he inquired through the intercom near the window.

"We will want her personal effects," Raines demanded, stabbing at the intercom button with a forceful finger.

Once more, Jarod took great pride – carefully hidden away in his heart – in shaking his head. "The lawyer has already been and collected her belongings, according to her wishes."

Raines' cheeks were growing flush with his frustration – every move he was trying to make, Miss Parker had made arrangements to counter long ago. "Thank you for your time," he muttered insincerely and gave a brusque wave to indicate to Willy that he was ready to leave. "But don't do anything with the body – I'll be talking to the lawyer right away to clear up custody…"

Jarod shrugged visibly and then busied himself with pushing the metal shelf with Miss Parker on it back into the refrigeration unit and closing the chrome door on her with a very cold and final slam.

He waited until he saw the black Centre limousine pull away from the Coroner's Office before he walked to the front and locked the door firmly, leaning against it in utter relief. He then went back into the morgue, opened the chrome door again and pulled the sliding metal slab out of the chill of the refrigerator. Once more, knowing it wasn't necessary but needing the reassurance nonetheless, he placed fingers on the artery in her neck and waited until he felt that one sluggish pulse that told him she still lived. He let go of a deep breath that he hadn't realized that he was holding and lifted Miss Parker up into his arms and carried her over to the autopsy table.

Washing the makeup from her very pale face and torso took precious little time – and he immediately dressed her in clothing that, while perfectly respectable, were of a lower quality than her normal expensive wardrobe. He glanced at his watch – Raines was no doubt discovering just how iron-clad Miss Parker's instructions were when it came to after death arrangements – and was trying to throw his weight around to break them.

Luckily, Jarod had taken the time to talk to the lawyer she'd used ahead of time – letting him know exactly what he was attempting and why. The lawyer had been more than willing to be complicit in putting one over on the mysterious and frightening organization that sat like a vulture on the hamlet's perimeter. The mortician had been similarly cooperative – surprisingly so, Jarod thought – and would offer up to the Centre if Raines insisted, in due time, an urn filled with fine ashes similar to the residue of a cremation playing the part of Miss Parker's remains. The already completed paperwork from the Coroner's Office would reflect the logical progression from police report to autopsy findings to a receipt recording a transfer of the body from the morgue to the mortuary. A similar set of documentation would reflect the arrival of the body at the mortuary and the subsequent cremation, as per her request.

It was done. For all intents and purposes, Melissa Anne Parker had died in an auto accident, arrived at the morgue, been autopsied, released to the mortuary and subsequently cremated. According to her will, all of her worldly assets would revert to a trust for a small child who, if all went well, would soon have Sydney as his official guardian. Sydney, with very little reason to remain at the Centre, would retire and leave Blue Cove once and for all to concentrate on raising the boy properly – at least, that would be the story everyone was told and would believe.

Still, time was of the essence. As much as he didn't want to put any more chemicals into her abused system, there was a counteragent to the substance he'd given her earlier that needed to be administered within the next ten minutes. Jarod pulled the syringe with the carefully measured dose from his pocket, used his teeth to pull away the needle sheath, and then slipped the thin needle into the crook of Miss Parker's elbow to deliver the clear antidote directly to the bloodstream.

That finished, he stripped away his white lab coat, donned his black leather jacket which had been hanging from a hook near the back door of the facility, and lifted the unconscious woman in his arms. The back door to the coroner's office locked automatically with a firm snap as he carried his former huntress to his mini SUV and deposited her gently in the front passenger seat. He belted her into place and then trotted around the front of the vehicle to slide in behind the steering wheel.

He reached out once more and touched the pulse-point in her neck and was gratified to sense the pulsing beneath his fingers to be a little more regular, slowly returning to a normal, healthy rate. With an odd look on his face, he straightened some of the dark tresses away from her face with a gentle hand – then turned with a determined look on his face to turn the key in the ignition and drive away.

oOoOo

Sydney could still hear Evan's sobbing in the guestroom of his house as he ushered John Petrie – Miss Parker's personal attorney – into his living room. The boy hadn't stopped crying since the phone call had come with Sam announcing that the plan was in motion – that the police had called the coroner and Miss Parker was on her way to being officially dead. Frankly, he'd shed a few tears himself at the thought of the woman he'd always considered like a daughter being lost to him – even if only for a while. Jarod would see to her wellbeing, he knew – but it just wasn't the same as being able to keep his promise to Catherine to watch over her personally.

"According to Miss Parker's declared wishes in case of her demise," Petrie was saying very formally, pulling papers from his thin briefcase, "she would like YOU to become Evan's legal guardian. The personal investigation and all the paperwork establishing this was begun when she last amended her will – all you have to do is sign, confirming your willingness to accept the responsibility…"

Sydney took the pen the lawyer was holding out to him and bent over the coffee table to sign where the manicured finger indicated. "Anything else?" he asked, his voice not quite steady.

Petrie looked up at him with twinkling eyes. "Actually, when I spoke to Mr. Russell, he told me to tell you not to worry – that he'd be "handling things on his end", he said – and said you'd know what he meant." His narrow lips twitched. "I'm assuming you're in on this little escapade…" He waited, and Sydney nodded wordlessly. "Anyway, I'll be in touch with Evan's foster family to pack up his belongings."

"Thank you," the Belgian managed in a warm tone, grateful that even now he didn't have to hold fast to the secret that Miss Parker's death was being fabricated. "Did you see…"

The thin wisp of a lawyer shook his head as he filed the paperwork back into his briefcase. "Nope. I only saw Mr. Russell – and the note from Miss Parker explaining what she was doing and why. Now I must go…" he rose, "…and head into Dover and get these papers filed so that as of Monday, everything's completely official." He held out his hand. "She wasn't entirely clear in her note as to just WHY she was doing what she was doing – or why she felt it necessary to go to such extreme measures to convince her employer that she was dead – but I hope that she knows that if she needs any further assistance…"

"I'm sure she'll call," Sydney assured the man and escorted him to the front door. "I don't have to tell you how much we all appreciate…"

Petrie held up his hand. "Just take care of that young man I hear in there," he directed with a serious gaze. "I hope he isn't to be kept in the dark for too long…"

"Only long enough to make things look convincing," Sydney answered with another backwards glance into the house. "I'll take care that he knows what's going on as soon as its safe for him to know it."

"Good luck to you then, Dr. Green," Petrie shook Sydney's hand once more and then turned to walk back to his silver Lexus sedan.

Sydney closed the front door as the silver car pulled away from the curb, and he walked slowly back toward his office. With a sigh he settled back down behind the desk and read the letter he'd been typing when interrupted by the lawyer, then slowly typed in a few more lines. He read his letter again, then pulled it from the typewriter and signed it with a bold pen. With the ease of long practice, he folded the letter to a size that would fit within a legal envelope and sealed it inside – then wrote "William Raines, Chairman" on the front of the envelope.

Leaving the envelope in the middle of the blotter, he made his way toward the guest bedroom. "Evan?" he asked, knocking on the door gently, "May I come in?"

"Yeah…" was the eventual, broken-voiced response.

The moment the old psychiatrist was through the door, Evan was off of the bed and running to throw his arms around him. "Sydney! What am I going to do now? Sissy said that one day we'd be together all the time – that she'd take me places and I'd live with her… But now she's gone…" Evan's voice caught in another sob.

Sydney picked up the boy with a little difficulty and carried him back to the bed. He seated himself on the edge of the bed and held the boy close in his lap, letting Evan find some support and comfort in his embrace. "Your sister asked me a long time ago that, if anything happened to her, I'd take over for her. I just now signed the papers with the lawyer that make me your legal guardian from now on."

Evan's tearful face lifted to look up into Sydney's eyes. "So I'm going to live with you from now on?"

"Yes," Sydney nodded and tightened his hold on the boy. "And I'm even going to stop working so that I can spend more time with you from now on." Evan leaned his head back against Sydney's chest, and Sydney felt the lump in his throat grow. "You're the most important thing in my life now – and I intend to see that you have a good life…"

"I miss Sissy," Evan sniffed, the tears coming just as easily as they had for the last few hours. "I wish…"

"I do too, Evan," Sydney whispered softly into the grieving boy's hair at the top of his head. I wish this was all over, he finished the thought internally.

oOoOo

"Where are you now, then?" Vickering demanded with a voice harsh from the excitement of knowing that this call meant that three of the incredible treasures the Centre had been hiding all this time were now virtually in the Foundation's possession.

"Just west of Chicago," Delgado confirmed, his eyes watching the last of the urban suburbs fade into the gentle Illinois countryside. "But we're on schedule to be in Philly by late tomorrow evening with all three of your packages." His eyes narrowed. "You have the rest of our money?"

"I will by the time you get to where you need to go," Vickering answered back curtly. "As agreed, however, you'll get nothing until AFTER you make delivery…"

"Our agreement was nothing of the sort!" Delgado barked and then masterfully steered the van to the side of the turnpike. "We get paid on delivery or we turn these three loose right here…"

"All right! All right!" Vickering cursed himself internally for giving away some of the ploy Jim had insisted on using to help offset the financial blow paying the mercenaries represented. "I'll call ahead and have my people have your money for you when you get there – but no screw-ups, hear?"

Delgado tossed a quick glance into the rear view to check on the status of the three boys who'd been trussed up with duct tape, hooded and kept separated either by seat rows or henchmen. "We haven't screwed up yet," he growled back. "We got all three out, and the place is burned to the ground behind us – just as you wanted."

"Good. I'll report on your progress to my superiors – and you never know, there might even be a bonus coming your way for doing the job so well."

Delgado's lips curled in a smile. "A bonus, huh?" A bonus on top of the hefty fee they were getting for this job? Incredible! "We'll call again when we're within two hundred miles, so you can give us specific instructions for the exchange."

"Drive carefully, gentlemen," Vickering instructed. "You're carrying a very precious load."

"You just have our money," Delgado demanded and then pulled the cell phone away from his ear and cut short the call. "Asshole."

"What?" Fishbain asked, being the only other one of the three to be currently awake.

Delgado shook his head. "I just have a sneaky feeling we're going to need to hedge our bets a bit. Something's just not right about the end game of this job."

"You think we're going to be double-crossed?"

"Dunno." Delgado's face smoothed into thoughtfulness. "Now shut up so I can think."

Fishbain shrugged and settled back against his headrest and watched out the window as the flat prairie lands slid nearly featurelessly past. He'd already seen as many silos and farms dotting the landscape as he wanted to in this life – he was ready to be back in the mountains of his home state of Kentucky. There a man with a fortune could lose himself.

oOoOo

"Dead?!" Shinse Olabi stared at the abstract painting that graced the opposite wall of his office without noticing a single detail. "You're sure?" Siskele moved abruptly toward him, but was restrained with an upheld hand.

"I received word just a few minutes ago myself," Raines wheezed into the other end of the connection. "I'm told that the entire facility has been destroyed – along with everyone who was in it at the time." Olabi could hear the tremor in the other man's voice – after all, it had been THIS project that had been touted as the financial salvation of the Centre.

"And what are you intending to do about this?" Olabi demanded in a soft and musically accented voice made all the more deadly with its gentleness.

The old man on the American end of the line gasped noisily, a sound that never failed to bring the hackles up on the back of the Triumvirate Councilman's neck. "I can assure you, sir, that my men will be making sure…"

"And how do you propose to do that?" Olabi asked bluntly. "My people in America tell me your organization is teetering on financial ruin."

"Far from it," Raines lied vehemently. "The Centre is as strong as ever…"

"You forget to whom you speak," Olabi reminded the American brutally. "Our money is all that has been keeping you in business for years – and now you're telling me that not only is the project that had consumed most of our funding completely destroyed, but that a member of the Triumvirate itself has been murdered in broad daylight." He frowned, sick at heart at the thought of never seeing Ugo N'Deka again.

There was silence from the other end of the line, and Olabi nodded in grim acknowledgement. "What kind of resources do you have to allocate to an investigation of this affair? Your Miss Parker is a most capable…"

"She's dead," Raines blurted out, then wheezed in a noisy breath. "She was drunk and took a corner too fast – wrapped her car around a telephone pole."

"Miss Parker dead!" Olabi shook his head at the thought. The nominal head of Centre Security had been a formidable woman – easily as cagey and relentless as her sire. "Well then – Mr. Lyle…"

"Is no longer associated with the Centre," Raines found himself forced to report. "He and his extra-curricular activities were becoming a liability the Centre could no longer afford."

"Then you have no Parker heir at the Centre anymore?" The eldest member of the Triumvirate gaped.

"I am…" Raines began.

"NOT an heir," Olabi snapped. He ran a tired hand down his face. "The Triumvirate will take care of its own investigation into the events in Montana – and the Centre will restrict its actions to discovering the reason behind the tragedy. In the meanwhile…"

"The Centre did everything that I promised it would," Raines tried to wheedle. "The destruction of the Montana facility is going to be a huge blow to the Centre's financial worth. In view of that…"

"No," the old man shook his head determinedly, even though the American couldn't see his actions. "Now that Duplicity has been destroyed, the Centre no longer has anything to offer the Triumvirate short of its physical facilities and equipment."

Raines was obviously caught off-guard. "You can't mean that, sir!"

"Your financial department can expect a call from ours, and we will begin the process of calling in our investment capital," Olabi announced with a tone of finality. "Good day to you sir," he stated and carefully returned the telephone receiver to its cradle.

"Who's dead?" Siskele demanded to know.

"Ugo," Olabi replied, his voice very tired.

The younger man gaped. "What happened? And what about Solo Indala?"

"Both are dead most likely. There was an explosion at the Montana installation – according to Mr. Raines, its unlikely that any survivors will be found."

"Sir! You don't think that Imsi Londele would…"

Olabi merely lifted his eyes to look at his aide and Security Chief. "You tell me. What do your men say?"

"Other than moving to a hotel not far from here, there's been no activity at all…"

"Then there are other forces at work here – and I want to know who they are and what they are about." Olabi stabbed at Siskele's chest with a hard forefinger. "I don't care what you have to do – find out who is responsible for Ugo N'Deka's death and bring them to me."

Siskele's eyes narrowed. "Even if it's ultimately Lula Mutumbo?"

Olabi's gaze didn't falter. "Especially if it's Lula Mutumbo."

oOoOo

Horace Evanston leaned against a tree trunk and looked down into the tiny town of Whitefish. He could see his home on the outskirts – it wasn't hard to find the yard with all of the rainbow-colored play equipment for small children. He couldn't tell if the children were outside playing – and he found himself straightening and resuming his determined trudging toward Sandy and home.

The little boy in his arms hadn't spoken once, but merely clung tightly to the lapel of his sports coat or hung on tightly around his neck when the terrain became treacherous. A tiny whimper brought his gaze down to the child – who gazed around himself with wonder and no small amount of alarm. No doubt the child was in shock – he'd been sheltered and kept enclosed within the walls of the facility for his entire life, and now not only had his entire familiar world fallen apart but he'd been carried bodily out into a strange and open place.

"Almost there," Evanston told the little boy reassuringly as he took care over the uneven ground between the pine trees. The little boy laid his head on the man's shoulder and clung even harder.

What was he going to tell his wife, Sandi, Evanston mused as he walked. What was he going to tell her about where the car was – or where he'd acquired this kid…

That was another thing. He couldn't continue to call the boy Pisces. The boy would need a new name – a name that wouldn't reflect on his being a part of a project that had included eleven identical brothers. Pisces – Peter. Yes! That would do nicely.

"We'll call you Peter," he told the boy between pants of breath. "Peter Evanston…" IF Sandi agreed, that was, he realized.

Sandi wouldn't deny him. She'd wanted children of her own for years – and when his relationship with the Centre had precluded the two of them from adoption, she'd opened a day care to fill in the hole in her life. Now…

He glanced down at the child. Sandi's hair was the same kind of dark brown – and she too had dark and expressive eyes. Perhaps it wouldn't be so far-fetched, if they moved from this tiny town to someplace where nobody knew either one of them, that little Pisc… Peter was their son.

Of course, he could always call Mr. Raines and tell the Chairman that he'd managed to rescue one of the Duplicity boys.

Peter blinked his wide, dark eyes at the man, and Evanston felt his resolve gel. No – he wasn't going to give this one back. God only knew where the boy had come from in the first place – but he was going to have parents now.

His steps during his musing had brought him to his street – and now that he had secure sidewalk below his feet, his pace increased. Then he was through the little metal gate and up the walk to the front door – and then he was through the door.

"Sandi!" he called. "Sandi!"

"Horace!" she cried back, running toward him from the back of the house with a frantic look on her face. "I heard the sirens – and I saw the smoke…" She would have embraced him, but had caught sight of the child and froze a mere step away from him. "What's going on?" she asked suspiciously, turning anxious eyes to her husband.

"This is Peter," he replied, knowing that the best answer would be to deposit the child into her arms – but also knowing better than to try as yet. Sandi studied the boy closely, then turned once more to her husband. "It's a long story," he sighed and took her gently by the upper arm. "Is Carrie in there to watch the kids? We need to talk…"

"Yeah, but…"

"Come on." His grasp on her arm steered her to the stairs. "We need to go somewhere where we can talk without being overheard…"

"Are you in trouble?" Sandi asked suspiciously.

"I'll tell you everything," he promised as he followed her through the door that was to their bedroom and closed it tightly behind him. "I promise."

oOoOo

"Mrs. Mutumbo, the limousine is this way," Usho gestured widely toward the stretch vehicle parked only a short distance away from the corporate jet. "Mr. Olabi is looking forward to seeing you again, ma'am – especially in light of recent events…"

Lula frowned. "WHAT recent events?" she demanded archly as she pushed past the bulky security man after gesturing for her assistant to follow closely.

"Why, the death of Mr. N'Deka, ma'am," Usho told her, frankly astonished that she didn't already know. Perhaps she'd been asleep on the flight when the news had been relayed – and the flight steward hadn't seen fit to tell her yet.

"Dead?" Lula stopped in her tracks and turned to stare at the bodyguard. "When? In America?"

Usho shrugged. "I don't know the details, ma'am, but word started circulating about an hour ago that majority stockholders were being called to an emergency meeting because the Council has lost a member."

"Ugo dead…" Lula mused to herself for a brief moment, hardly believing her luck. Here one of the obstacles to her ambition had seen fit to remove himself from the picture without her having to lift a finger to help him on his way to the underworld! She broke herself from her reverie with difficulty to issue an imperious wave. "Well, then, we need to make some time!"

"Yes, ma'am," Usho held the door to the limousine open deferentially and watched as the rotund woman and her lithe slip of an assistant each stepped from the pool of light from the light pole into the relative darkness of the vehicle. Then the bodyguard oversaw the transfer of the luggage from the belly of the Leer jet into the trunk of the limo before hustling to the driver's door.

"Step on it," he heard Mrs. Mutumbo order firmly from the back of the car and then, as he put the limousine into motion, he heard the whir as the privacy window between driver and passenger compartments closed.

Lula pulled her cell phone from her purse and pressed a programmed button and waited. "It seems that somebody's doing your work for you," she announced to the sleepy man on the other end of the line.

"You are well informed for having been in the air for the past few hours," Imsi Londele replied, awakening completely with a quick shake of the head. "I only heard from one of my agents in America an hour or so ago."

"Now all you have to do is take care of Shinse Olabi, and…"

"This is not a good time to be thinking of such things," Londele interrupted her coldly. "Shinse Olabi is no fool – and Triumvirate protocol will demand that security be tightened until there are once more three at the helm…"

Lula bristled. "I know Triumvirate protocol – you don't need to lecture me on something I helped author!"

If Londele were taken aback at her vehemence – or her apparent influence in the processes in question – it didn't show. "Then I don't need to lecture you on how timing yet another attack on the Triumvirate now – especially one that miraculously manages to avoid touching YOU – would seem highly suspicious."

"I'm paying a very great amount of money…" she began angrily.

"Money that I'm more than willing to walk away from," Londele again interrupted her. "I value my freedom a great deal – and I won't walk into a trap like this for anyone, or any price."

Lula glanced at her assistant and found the woman to be watching out the limousine's windows in carefully disciplined disinterest in what was being said by the woman next to her. "So how long, then?"

"Protocol demands that the consortium members and stockholders have a week to put togther a slate of candidates for the position left vacant," Londele said in a patient voice. "I have most of my pieces already in place – but will wait at least four days. BUT…" his voice tightened into urgency, "when the time comes, you will need to play a part in order to avoid suspicion falling on you."

"What kind of part?" Lula demanded.

"I will give you more information as needed," Londele replied. "In the meantime, don't call too much attention to yourself. Be appropriately shocked and appalled – and maybe even a touch suspicious yourself. Take your clues from Olabi and match your mood to his."

Lula leaned back against her seat cushion. "I can do that."

"Good. I'll be in touch as time gets shorter…"

"Wait!" She sat up straight again.

"What?"

"Do you know who is responsible for taking out Ugo N'Deka?"

Londele chuckled. "You mean you DON'T know?"

"If I did, I wouldn't be asking you," Lula flared back.

"Good night, Mrs. Mutumbo," he chuckled again in response. "I'll be in touch."

"Don't you hang up on me!" Lula shouted futilely as the line went dead in her ear. Spitting, she snapped the little device closed and thrust it into her purse again.

How dare he leave her knowing less than he did! Her eyes narrowed. It was dangerous to play games with Lula Mutumbo – and obviously someone had neglected to inform Imsi Londele of that fact.

Well, just wait until she was the sole voice of authority! He'd know just how big an error he'd made then – and she'd make sure of it as one of her first orders of business!

oOoOo

Jarod tried not to smile as the first real moan of pain and consciousness came from the passenger side of the mini SUV. "Welcome back to the land of the living, Miss Parker," he stated softly but with real happiness. It had been a long few hours waiting for the drugs to ease their hold on her.

"Ssssssssssssshhhhhhhhit," she finally hissed and put a hand to her forehead.

"Don't mess with that," Jarod cautioned and reached over to pull her hand back down from examining the bandage over her head wound. "It took eight stitches to close that…"

"What the hell did you do?" she managed to ask without opening her eyes yet. The pounding in her head was enough to make her fear that adding vision to the mix could make her genuinely ill.

"We had to make it look good," Jarod told her apologetically.

"We?"

"Sam was there…"

"But you did the honors, didn't you?"

"Well…" Jarod really didn't want to start this new phase of their relationship with a lie. "Sam was more than a little reluctant to do what was necessary – but more than happy to threaten me to within an inch of my life if, when I did it, something went wrong…"

"Good man," she groaned and tried to shift on her seat to get more comfortable. "Did it work?" she asked finally.

"Raines took one look at you and started swearing," Jarod reported with a mischievous smirk.

"WHAT?" she tried to sit up and look around at the same time, only to subside back with a much louder groan. "Geezus! You saw Raines? What if he'd recognized…"

"He was more than a little distracted, Miss Parker, I promise. Besides, I had you nicely made up as a corpse," he reassured her. "You were very convincing as a dead body." He glanced at the clock on the dashboard. "And by now, at least as far as the Centre is concerned, you're nothing but a pile of ash at the bottom of a funerary urn too."

"So now what?" she groaned and began trying to blink her eyes open and hold them open for more than just a second or two. "Where are you taking me?"

"Someplace safe for the time being," he replied, his voice losing its playfulness suddenly. "We need to wait for a little bit – for things to settle down after your death and the FBI's visit…"

"Oh yeah." Miss Parker closed her eyes and shifted once more, finally finding a genuinely more comfortable position in the leather seat. "God, I feel like I AM just climbing out of a tomb!"

He shot her a quick glance. Her face was still very pale and she swallowed more than once in a manner that told of strength of the headache the chemicals had left behind in her system as a residual. "You did just climb off a coroner's slab, if you think about it," he reminded her gently.

"I just want a soft bed and some peace and quiet for a few hours…" she began and then sat up straight in her seat – and immediately groaned her remorse at her own actions. "What about Evan…"

"Sydney's taking care of things on that end," Jarod told her reassuringly. "If I know him, he's already got his resignation letter written."

She leaned against the headrest and fought the temptation to re-open her eyes. "You thought of everything, didn't you?" It wasn't a question.

"That's what I'm good at, Miss Parker," he shot back, feeling for the first time in a very long time the bitterness of victimization. "It's why you chased me for so long."

"Tell me where you're taking me, Jarod," she demanded just a little more firmly, her tone of voice taking much of the sting from the order. "And don't forget how long I'll have to stay there."

"You really don't remember much of the discussion at your house, do you?"

She shook her head. "I just remember getting very sleepy about the time you walked through my door. Did you tell me?"

"Actually, no," Jarod admitted without taking his eyes from the highway. "I figured it would be better if nobody left behind in Blue Cove knew anything substantial."

"So…" She turned her head and opened her eyes carefully. "Spill, Jarod."

"I'm taking you to stay with my folks for a bit – at least until your head is healed and I have a better handle on some of the other details."

"Your folks?!" she gaped, and then blinked. "What do you mean, OTHER details?"

"Duplicity – remember?" He shot her a very brief frown.

"You think that has anything to do with…"

"What I do know, Miss Parker," Jarod explained with a terse tone, "is that I was investigating a suspicious death when I discovered the corporation I was inside was building a Sim Lab of its own."

"Sooo…"

"That's when I figured out that the Centre must have been up to its old tricks – and called Sydney. Helping you out of your jam in return for the details of Duplicity was a tangeant – I still have to figure out why that murder happened, and what the hell that Sim Lab is going to be used for. Or should I say WHO is going to be mentored there."

"So I'm going to be stuck with your family?" Miss Parker furled her brows, a painful process that pulled on the stitches in her forehead.

"Until you're back on your feet and ready to move on in life without the Centre dogging your heels like its dogged mine," Jarod nodded. "And until I know for sure whether or not the same people who murdered a psych researcher are the same ones behind what was supposed to happen to you."

"That's quite a theory you've concocted, Jarod – and not a lot of evidence tying the one situation to the other."

"I've learned over the years to trust my gut," he stated quietly. "And right now, my gut is telling me that its no coincidence that the Centre has new Pretenders and the Fou… the place I'm investigating… is making moves to house and use a Pretender of its own."

The mini SUV began to go around a gradual curve, and Miss Parker closed her eyes and swallowed hard again. "How much further is it?"

"Try to relax," Jarod told her sympathetically. "We have a few hours yet. Try to get some sleep."

"I've slept too much today already," Miss Parker snapped and then sighed. "But I'll try. I feel like shit."

Jarod glanced back over at her when she had remained quiet again for a long moment and then smiled softly as he saw her chest rise and fall in a regular sleep pattern. He shifted in his seat and stretched out first one arm and then the other over the steering wheel. After all, he still had to come up with an argument that would convince his mom and dad to take into their home one who had been "the enemy" for far too long.

oOoOo

"Tell Chairman Raines that Special Agent Bailey from the Federal Bureau of Investigations needs to speak to him immediately," the low and gravelly voice demanded of the woman at the desk in front of ornately etched glass doors.

"Do you have an appointment?" she asked blandly as she reached for the intercom button.

"We don't need one," Bailey flashed the warrant in her face. He pointed at the doors. "Is he in there?"

"Wait a moment!" she rose in protest as the Special Agent and the four other agents who had come out of the elevator with him began to move en masse past her desk heading for the Chairman's office. "You can't just barge in…"

"We not only can, but any attempt to stop us will land you behind bars for obstructing a Federal investigation," Bailey barked at her, and she collapsed back into her secretary's chair in defeat.

Bailey had his badge out as a younger agent held the door open for him. "Special Agent Bailey of the FBI…" he announced to the small and skeletal man behind the desk at the far end of the huge office.

"What the hell…" Willy growled and began to move to defend his boss.

And stopped dead in his tracks as two hand guns came out of shoulder holsters to point directly at him. "Stop right there," Bailey demanded and then gestured at his agents to frisk the sweeper. When one of them retrieved the huge Smith and Wesson from Willy, he shook his head. "Bad move, big fella," he quipped and with a gesture had another agent with handcuffs pulling the big man around.

"What's the meaning of this?" Raines wheezed hard and drew a very noisy breath of oxygen.

"We have a warrant to search your facility here for evidence of long-term involuntary servitude," Bailey answered, tossing the warrant down on the big desk. "I also have an arrest warrant for you and several of your associates – a Mr. Lyle…"

"He's no longer with us," Raines declared truthfully. "He vanished a few days ago…"

"We'll ascertain that for ourselves," Bailey declared. "Now, if you would please come with us…"

Instead, Raines pushed the intercom button. "I want the head of the Legal Department in my office in five minutes," he ordered harshly.

"Go," Bailey ordered his associates, each of whom knew exactly who they were looking for and what to impound.

Raines and Willy exchanged a worried glance. First the tragedy in Montana – and now this? What ELSE could go wrong?

oOoOo

"Hey Boss! Have you heard?"

Les Vickering looked up from his computer screen to where his assistant was poking his head around the previously closed door. "Heard what?"

"The Feds are crawling through the place," Stan reported with a conspiratorial tone. "I heard from one of the legal types down the hall that old man Raines and his pet bulldog were both hauled away in handcuffs…"

Vickering shook his head. "You know better than to believe grapevine skuttlebutt…"

"Those FBI guys are no illusion, Les," Stan shook his head. "They're going from department to department, shutting things down – Carole in Purchasing told Vince that they want us to shut down the mainframe…"

"They do that, the place will close down!" Vickering gaped. THIS wasn't the way the plan had called for the Centre to be dealt with.

Stan shrugged. "Just thought you'd like a little warning…" he commented and then pulled his head back.

Vickering closed down the screen he'd been working on as soon as he was certain that the electronic transfer of the contingency fund that he'd been feeding for years had been accomplished. He'd be damned if over twenty million dollars of quietly pilfered Centre funding was going to be turned over to the Feds. He then went into the Accounting Department software and eliminated all signs that the contingency fund had ever existed.

It was time. Whether it was Foundation doing or the result of the Centre's own misdeeds, it seemed that the house of cards was now in the process of collapsing. It was time for him to vanish – for Les Vickering to cease to exist as a real person. It was time to hop into a car that the Foundation had kept stored at his home in Blue Cove awaiting just this day and begin the long drive back to Philadelphia and his TRUE identity.

It was time to demand more respect from his twin brother – and a fair share of the responsibility and authority at the Foundation. He'd earned it with fifteen long years of undercover work in this cesspool of a Centre – and there was no way that Jake would be allowed to deny him his due.

He'd come to work Les Vickering, head of the Accounting Department. When he walked out the front lobby tonite, he would once more be Jim McKenna.

It was about time!

oOoOo

Sandi Evanston stared at her husband sitting next to her on the edge of the bed and tried not to let herself be distracted by the handsome little boy Horace had retrieved from her and now held on his lap. "So let me get this straight," she shook her head and rose to begin pacing in front of him. "You're telling me that the place you've been working at for the last twelve years has just been blown to smithereens – and that you rescued this little boy that you want US to just walk away with and pretend is ours from now on?" She whirled and glared at him. "The police will be looking…"

"No, they won't," he interrupted her harshly. "I may not be entirely "in the loop" as far as where these boys came from, but I know enough to be pretty sure that nobody knows or really cares about them except the Centre."

"That's obscene!" Sandi snapped, finally letting her gaze rest on the dark-haired tyke in her husband's lap.

Horace ducked his head a bit at her vehemence. "I was told very clearly when I was hired to administer the facility that I was to ask no questions about the details of the work being done. The boys – especially the older ones – were very, VERY smart. I have no doubt that this kid would be much the same…"

"But we can't just pack up and move away and pretend…"

"Yes, we can!" he interrupted again. "Who'd stop us?"

She stared at him, dumbfounded by the audacity of what he was suggesting they do.

Horace watched the emotions flow across his wife's face. "I thought you wanted children," he pressed gently, knowing that he was being unfair but letting the attractive outcome influence him to use all the means available to him.

Sandi's gaze softened immediately. "I do," she stated softly, once more gazing at the little boy. She slowly sat back down next to her husband and reached out a tenuous hand to straighten some of the dark hair. "What's his name?"

"We can call him Peter," Horace answered her softly, seeing the desire to believe that it could truly be as simple as that slowly take hold of his wife.

"Peter?" Sandi pronounced the name gently and could feel her will weakening. "Will he come to me?" She put out her hands to the boy. "Peter?"

The child looked at the pretty lady who was reaching out to him and apparently asking HIM if she could hold him. These things didn't happen – did they? Still, his training in unquestioned obedience to all adult authority figures was absolute, and he lifted his arms so that the lady could get a firm grasp on him.

Sandi closed her eyes as the child settled on her lap, wrapping her arms around the little boy and holding him close like the treasure he represented. "What about the preschool?" she asked finally. "we can't just walk away…"

"I can pack while you make the phone calls," Horace answered, the sight of the child in his wife's lap only serving to make him more sure that he was doing the right thing. The little boy looked a little confused – but with time, he was sure, that would pass. "Think, babe – this is what we've always wanted."

"You're sure this isn't kidnapping or something just as evil?"

"As God as my witness, babe, nobody will ever come looking for him. He's ours – if we want him." Horace could feel her resistance weakening even more. "We go somewhere where they don't know us, and we make a whole new life for ourselves."

Sandi bent and leaned her cheek on the little boy's head. HER boy's head. When she opened her eyes to look at her husband, she knew that he'd be able to read her decision.

Had there really been any question?

oOoOo

Zoë stared at the front of the mountain cabin where she knew that Nia lived these days. Was she home, this woman that had meant so much to Jarod years ago – or was she at work? Was the information still current – would someone really want to be living all this way out in the boondocks?

More importantly, how long was she willing to wait in her car before either walking up to the door of the cabin or driving away? The day was dying, the light through the trees was growing steadily dimmer in anticipation of the nighttime, and the air outside the old convertible was chilly. Zoë shivered – she should have dressed more warmly, the way Gram had suggested that morning.

There it was! A light had flicked on inside the cabin – a light toward the back of the cabin that was probably in or near the kitchen. A woman was probably getting ready to cook herself an evening meal. Zoë's eyes narrowed. She WAS there!

She leaned over and opened the glove box and pulled out the heavy handgun that… that… someone had given her. The inability to remember where or when she'd acquired the weapon bothered her only for a brief moment before the voice in her mind was reminding her "I decide who lives and dies." The statement echoed over and over, drowning all doubts and questions about what she was doing. Opening the door, she rose from behind the steering wheel and tucked the heavy and cold lump of metal into the waistband of her fitted trousers at the back. It wouldn't do to give away her intentions TOO early, after all…

But… what if this Nia person hadn't heard from Jarod? What if she DIDN'T know where he was? The questions finally bubbled forth and made her determined steps in the dust hesitate slightly. After all, Jarod never said anything about still being in contact…

No! He had talked very lovingly about this woman – called her his "first one". She was special to him, this Nia was, and she HAD to know where he was.

Because if she didn't…


	13. Waiting To Breathe

Chapter 13 – Waiting to Breath

Angelo blinked as he stepped out of the utility shed that hid the Centre ventilation pumps and into the sudden afternoon sunlight and looked around him. The trees were half-nude around him, their leaves making a golden carpet on the ground spread out before him – and the sky above was a crystal clear blue without a cloud in sight. The air wasn’t cold – but it wasn’t the processed warm of the ventilation ductworks that had been his home for decades either. What was most obvious was that there was no metal – no cement block – anywhere in sight. 

It felt wrong to be out here in the open – where there were no comforting walls close in, surrounding him and protecting him. But Daughter needed him, and… He nodded as he finally identified yet another facet to the swirling morass of emotions and intuitions flooding his brain. Friend needed him too. He needed to get to Sydney. Wait… No. He couldn’t go to Sydney – going to Sydney would disrupt very delicate conditions in favor of THEM, something he would never do deliberately. He had to go to Daughter then.

At least she was alive now. He had almost despaired when he’d felt her fade away from the sensitive talent that had always, until then, known where she was and in what condition. She’d faded almost completely away – and been nearly imperceptible until just a few hours ago. Now she was nearly back to where she belonged – and, at least for the moment, with Friend. Friend was helping Daughter too. Angelo smiled. It would be good to see them both again.

He would have been out sooner – should have been out sooner – but for the new security systems in place in the ductwork that he’d always called home. So many of the ways that Jarod had left open to him after his escape had been closed off one by one in the years. As time had passed, Angelo had almost despaired of finding a chink through which he could slip if the need ever arose. Even access to Centre computer terminals had become a rarity – making it even harder to chase down and bypass security. But then the strangers had come – and suddenly the computer itself was being shut down section by section, system by system. All it took was one related security protocol to be toggled off, and Angelo had been once more free to follow his instincts.

Even so, he could barely remember the last time he had been out in the open like this. Back then, he’d been slowly recovering what it had meant to be Timmy… No! He wouldn’t think of that now. That was memory – and the time for memory was in the darkness when all around was quiet and secure. Right now, he needed to find Friend – because he didn’t dare be with Sydney and Evan, no matter how much closer they were.

A frown crinkled Angelo’s face as he used his empathic ability to pinpoint the direction he needed to travel in. He turned until he could feel the mental pull that was his connection to Daughter and then reached down for the pack he’d managed to accumulate while waiting for his moment to escape. The Centre would never need those packages of trail mix he’d appropriated from the cafeteria storeroom years ago – and there were several boxes of Cracker Jack to have for an evening treat. From the sweepers’ lounge, he’d appropriate a jacket that more or less fit – it would be essential as the temperature fell. And the workers on SL-22 would never miss the small water bottles he’d taken from the vending machine near the men’s restroom.

Even more appreciated would be the money that had been nestled in the breast pocket of the jacket – he’d counted nearly one hundred fifty dollars. That would provide perhaps transportation to… Angelo thought hard – it wasn’t always easy to see places that were still only intentions and not locations – but eventually the fog in his mind cleared enough to see a rustic fence and a white farmhouse in the background. 

He stuck his hands in the jacket pocket and began walking, for the first time in his life not worrying much about Centre security scrambling behind him to bring him back to the dark hallways and darker ductworks. 

Soon, those hallways would be even darker. Angelo didn’t belong there anymore.

He belonged with Friend and with Daughter. His steps quickened. He needed to get there soon.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Miss Parker roused as she felt the vehicle slow down to make a sharp turn to the right, and she eased herself forward so she could straighten the seat. At least this time, her head wasn’t pounding out the Anvil Chorus, and she felt reasonably secure in opening her eyes to take in her surroundings. “Where are we?”

“We’re here,” Jarod answered briefly and cryptically as he guided the mini SUV around a corner in the rutted drive, carefully avoiding a rather daunting pothole that he must have known existed. “See?” he pointed.

She followed his pointing finger to find herself watching a comfortably large and sprawling farmhouse slowly emerge from behind towering elm trees in the rich golden light of a fine autumn sunset. A large red barn sat further along the drive with an SUV and a sedan parked in front – and wooden corral fencing penned in two horses. “So war hero Major Charles is now a gentleman farmer?” she quipped with as much sarcasm as she could muster.

“Be nice,” Jarod retorted. “It suits the necessary purposes. It’s isolated enough here that any strangers can be seen long before they can get close – which means the Centre would be at a disadvantage. Ethan and JD take the car into town on Friday nights to spend time with their friends or see a movie – and help Dad around the place otherwise.” He glanced at her. “All in all, they have a very normal life here, all hidden away carefully from the Centre.”

“That’s good,” Miss Parker replied without the sarcasm this time, biting back a snarking response that would only serve to put the Pretender even more on edge than he obviously already was. “Tell me, Genius, do they know you’re bringing me home to them?”

“Ethan knows,” he answered quietly, and she nodded her acceptance of that. She hadn’t seen or heard from her half brother in over eight years – and yet a secret part of her rejoiced that she would have at least one person who might be glad to see her. “Actually, it was he who suggested that I bring you here – rather than just take you back with me.”

“What about your folks?”

Jarod shrugged. “Ethan said that he’d break the news to the others.”

Miss Parker sighed. Her welcome in that warm-looking farmhouse was anything but assured, then, she knew now. “What about…”

“We’re here,” Jarod announced and shut off the engine. Already a tall man, tanned by long hours in the sun, was striding toward them. 

“Ethan?” Miss Parker breathed in surprise. The Ethan who broke into a smile at the first sight of his half sister was very different from the nervous and damaged young man she’d last seen almost a decade earlier. His blue eyes danced with merriment and restrained excitement, and his movements were anything but jerky and neurotic. Whatever her reception today, she would never again regret his coming with Jarod’s family – for they’d taken him in and helped him find himself and heal into the fine young man he’d always had the potential to be. She owed these people more than she could ever repay.

“Miss Parker!” Ethan exclaimed as he pulled the passenger door open. 

“Melissa,” she corrected him gently and then sighed in contentment as his arms slipped around her and pulled her from the car and into a warm and tight embrace.

“I thought I’d never see you again,” he told her softly, his cheek pressed against the side of her head.

Miss Parker tolerated the hug as long as she could, and then gently pushed herself away. “Let me look at you. I hardly recognized you as you came out of the house!”

“Miss Parker!” another familiar voice called. She turned in real surprise as a younger version of Jarod – same height, same build, same dark eyes, same smile, same voice but a much more relaxed demeanor – trotted down the steps and up to pull her into another warm and tight, although more brief, hug. “I remember you,” he told her as she was finally able to step back again. “You were kind to me. It’s good to see you again.”

“Life here agrees with you too, I see,” she smiled at him and finally really noted the differences between the original and the duplicate. Hair that was much longer than Jarod had ever thought of wearing his was pulled into a neat braid that trailed down his back – and a natty and intellectual-looking beard and moustache completed the look. Like Ethan, JD was tanned and weathered by hours in the sun, and from both hugs she had detected strength that under urban conditions only came from many hours in a gym.

“What happened here?” JD frowned and touched at the butterfly bandage very fleetingly.

“It’s a long story – and she really needs to be inside and resting,” Jarod finally spoke as he pulled a suitcase from the back of the SUV that Miss Parker immediately recognized as one of her own. 

“Tell me you packed for me,” she demanded and then sighed in contentment as he nodded in response. Jarod packing for her would mean she could begin to feel far more human very shortly.

“I told you I would,” Jarod complained, and then relented. “You probably don’t remember THAT either.”

She frowned at him over her shoulder as she ended up sandwiched between Ethan and JD. “Miss Parker…” brought her eyes forward once more to look into the gentle yet wary dark eyes of a completely silver-haired Major Charles. “Ethan said Jarod was bringing you. To be honest, you’re one of the last people I ever expected him to bring home with him.”

Suddenly she was once more unsure of her reception. “This wasn’t my idea,” she started in self-defense, only to find herself silenced when the Major raised a hand.

“I know it wasn’t – or you’d have been here long ago with sweepers, no doubt,” the Major nodded. “But you can imagine our surprise when Ethan announced what was going to happen.” He rounded on his oldest child. “You could have called…”

“Dad…” Jarod stepped forward, drawing his father’s gaze to himself and away from Miss Parker. “There wasn’t time, and…”

“It’s all right, son,” Major Charles answered his oldest son easily, his gaze back to pinning Miss Parker where she stood. “Never let it be said that we weren’t willing to help another fugitive from the Centre. A little more notice would have been appreciated though.” The dark eyes narrowed as they returned their regard to Jarod. “Surely you realize this brings us far too close to Centre detection, though, Jarod – something I THOUGHT we’d all agreed that...”

Jarod shook his head. “The Centre will be a little too busy with an FBI investigation into some of its recent activities to be looking for a woman they believe already dead and cremated,” he smiled, relaxing a bit and enjoying the look of surprise on his father’s face. 

“Who’s dead and buried?” Margaret chimed in from behind her husband and then moved to where she could join the group. Like the Major, she also had a great abundance of silver hairs outnumbering the chestnut red now – although her face was just as smooth as it had been during the storm on Carthis. Her eyes, blue and sparkling and very intelligent, landed on Jarod after a cursory examination of Miss Parker. “Emily called, and said that you’d just up and vanished. She had a feeling it had something to do with the Centre…”

Well, here it was – and Miss Parker couldn’t blame either of the elder Russells a bit for their lack of greeting. They were right – were it not for the fact that the Centre, and Raines, believed her to be dead, the search for her would lead the sweepers and cleaners right to this driveway in very short order. Either way, as much as she was thrilled at least to know that her half brother and the clone that had escaped the Centre’s manipulations were well and happy and contented, she had no desire to stay anywhere she wasn’t welcome. “Jarod, maybe this isn’t such a good idea…” 

Major Charles put an arm around his wife’s shoulders and pulled her to him – still a little dazed by Jarod’s announcement. “You called the FBI in to investigate the Centre?”

Ethan could feel his sister’s energy waning fast, and his sensitivity to her mood told him easily why she was beginning to wilt. “Look,” he broke in before Jarod could respond, “can we discuss this inside? We have someone here who could use a comfortable chair before she falls in. If nobody’s noticed, she’s had a head injury…”

As Margaret looked back at her visitor, the bandage and the pallor on the young woman’s face finally registered. “By all means. Let’s go in and have some coffee – something tells me that Jarod has a lot of explaining to do this time.” She patted her husband’s tummy familiarly. “We can at least offer some hospitality, Charles – they’ve been on the road for hours, no doubt.”

“C’mon!” Ethan and JD remained at Miss Parker’s elbow, escorting her up the steps into the house. The Major and his wife followed, with Jarod and the big suitcase bringing up the rear. As Jarod pulled the front door closed against the deepening twilight, he wondered how they would all react when they knew the WHOLE story.

It had been a necessary move, both in terms of making Miss Parker safe from the nameless threat that had hung over her in the Centre as well as unraveling the secret of what both the Centre and the Foundation was up to with Duplicity/Purloined. But in bringing Miss Parker to his family, had he finally gone too far? Could he get them to understand – and perhaps even help?

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

“C’mon! C’mon! Hurry up already, will ya?” Broots fumed as his CD drive clicked on in an inexorably slow rhythm. He’d long since decided that the only way for him to continue his search through the financial records for evidence of who might have been behind the threat to Miss Parker was to make sure HE had a complete copy of all Accounting Department documents and files. But as the day had worn on, and more and more sections of the Centre were being shut down by the FBI invasion, he had despaired of finding some of the recently deleted files that might be even more informative than anything still left in the system.

And now, with five minutes left before the Computer Technologies Department was supposed to go dark, he was still only halfway through burning the information to the second of two disks. In the corner of the room, an FBI agent stood watch over the assorted cubbies – each with a technician diligently and desperately trying to complete their assigned tasks before the deadline. Broots had come here when his office had been a part of the Centre extinguished first – flashing his ID to the FBI agent and taking the desk that the Centre had still maintained for him in the Computer Technologies Labs, despite his permanent assignment to SIS and Miss Parker. Since then, under the watchful eye of a complete outsider, he’d been working feverishly to collect everything he could and get it copied to a disk that could be studied elsewhere – because the chances were that he’d never get the chance to study it at work again.

Broots could still only barely wrap his mind around the fact that Mr. Raines had been taken into custody that morning in regards to information supplied to the FBI about involuntary servitude at the Centre. Not only Mr. Raines, but Willy – Raines’ pet bulldog – and several other of the more influential and “hardcore” sweepers, cleaners and executives had been seen by a reliable source hauled away in handcuffs and removed from the premises. The rumor mill at the cafeteria had the charges each had had filed against them anything from extortion and fraud to assault and battery to outright murder – and the general mood of the employees was almost one of relief, despite the looming possibility of the unemployment lines.

“Aren’t you done yet?”

Broots nearly jumped from his chair – and then settled down again with a glare at Sam. “Geez! Warn a guy, will ya?”

“G-man in the corner’s getting antsy, Broots. Finish up,” Sam urged quietly. “They want the mainframe shut down completely for forensic dissection in half an hour – and you guys are the last ones to sign off.”

“Since when you working for THEM?” Broots snapped and turned back to the screen that was still ticking away the number of blocks of information left to be written to the disk. The number was thankfully getting much smaller now.

“I’m not,” Sam snapped back with a vicious whisper. “I just want to get the hell out of here before the lights go out – know what I mean?”

Broots blinked. “What do you mean?”

Sam shrugged. “It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that if the Feds are crawling through every nook and cranny of this place, shutting down the mainframe and hauling Raines and several other sweepers off to the pokey, NOW is not a good time to be dawdling on Centre business. Know what I mean?”

The computer chimed at him, and Broots removed the silvery CD from the now-open drive door. “I’m done,” he announced triumphantly. He settled the disk in the case with its partner and then slipped the pair into the pocket of his jacket that was hanging on the back of his chair. “Satisfied?” he asked sharply as he logged himself off the system and then shut off his terminal.

“About time!” Sam pulled the jacket off the back of the chair and pushed it into the technician’s hands as the man finally rose from his work chair. “Can we go now?”

“What’s your hurry?” Broots waited until he was in the corridor before he asked.

Sam grabbed the smaller man by the elbow to hurry him along toward the elevator door, causing the technician to squeak in surprise and pain. “I want to get while the getting’s good – don’t you? Bad enough that I have to come back on Monday to hand in my resignation, ya know?”

Broots swallowed and nodded, wishing he didn’t have to come back either. In his desk, as agreed upon before Jarod had left to put the entire plan into action, was a letter of resignation from his position – a letter that he would return to work on Monday to deliver, presuming that the Centre was even open for business on Monday. Sydney too would no doubt be delivering a similar letter – but at least he had an excuse: Evan needed a full-time guardian, which precluded the old man working full time anymore. 

Debbie had been less than thrilled at her father’s plans to pack up all their personal belongings and begin a trek that would ultimately lead them to new lives in New York. In order to make sure their escape from the Centre was complete and permanent, there would be no time to call friends to say goodbye – they would only have a few hours to pack Monday morning after he returned from delivering his notice, and then they’d be driving out to meet their plane in Dover. Years before, he could remember an oddly pensive Miss Parker telling him that if the chance came to get away from the Centre, he should take it for Debbie’s sake. That time, and chance, had come at last. 

Even so – despite the fact that each member of the pursuit team at one time or another had expressed the desire to put as much distance as possible between themselves and the Centre – it just felt wrong to be leaving like this. It felt almost like abandoning a swamping, although not quite yet sinking, ship.

“Wait a minute! Anyone seen Angelo?” Broots asked suddenly, pulling Sam to a halt just as the silver elevator doors swished open.

“No,” Sam answered, again taking hold of an elbow and compelling Broots to move forward again. He waited until the door was closed. “That guy’s smart enough – smarter than any of us have ever given him credit for, I bet. He’ll be fine.”

“Not if he’s stuck in the ventilation ducts when the Centre’s closed down,” Broots complained.

Sam shook his head. “We can’t worry about a half-coherent savant that neither of us has the least idea how to find, Broots. Right now, the first concern is to save our own skins.”

“Miss Parker would want to know…”

“Miss Parker would understand,” the sweeper countered firmly. “Look – Jarod explained it all. We can’t afford to mess with the schedule. We have a window of opportunity – just in case the Centre actually has the funding to pull off a legal maneuver to get Raines out of hot water and back in the Tower to start things back up on Monday morning.”

“I know that…”

“Then you know that we don’t dare deviate from the plan. Angelo can take care of himself – he’s done a good job of it for years now. You just make sure you pack up your home computer for shipping – and keep looking for clues once you get where you’re going!”

Broots looked up into the stern face of Miss Parker’s personal sweeper and bodyguard. “Where are you going to go?” he asked, curious. Sydney, he knew, would be staying behind in Blue Cove – at least, for the time being. Miss Parker was gone. Sam’s fate, up to now, had been a mystery.

Sam’s face softened into mild disappointment. “Jarod wouldn’t tell me where he was taking Miss P – but he promised me he’d be in touch later.” He nodded, as if working to convince himself. “I’m gonna be packing and heading to New York myself for a while – and then I’ll be with her again, watching her back, like always, when Jarod calls.”

“It’s not fair!” Broots mumbled to himself. “We’re a team! We should stick together”

“We’re still a team,” Sam reminded the shorter man. “We just aren’t going to be working elbow to elbow for a while.”

“Doesn’t mean I like it…”

Sam snorted softly. “You ain’t the only one, Broots. Trust me!”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Lyle swam back to consciousness on the kind of sea of pain that he hadn’t experienced since his youth – and even then, he’d never felt anything like what he was going through now. Not only was every breath he took a stab of agony, and not only could he not even think of moving his legs without nearly passing out, but the cuts in his buttocks and down his thighs were streamers of trickling pain. The stump of his right thumb throbbed in time with his heartbeat, and there were also several cuts on his abdomen and chest – light and superficial slices that were meant to cause and then bring him nothing BUT pain. And he ached brutally inside – and his mind simply refused to remember the events that had led to THAT pain.

He could hear the sound of angry Japanese voices in the background – including the deep tones of his personal torturer, Kinjiro. How these yellow dogs could possibly label him a monster and yet tolerate one such as he in their midst was beyond his understanding. The big man had taken far too much pleasure in the giving of pain and humiliation – more, even, than Lyle suspected he’d ever been able to get from his own escapades. How long he’d been in the monster’s tender care, he had no way of knowing – possibly as little as a few hours, and yet it was equally possible he’d been there for days. Time had long since stopped having any meaning.

Finally there was an explosion of Japanese that silenced all the arguing voices – and a long nattering in a tone that brooked absolutely no argument whatsoever. Heavy footsteps approached him, and Lyle rolled slightly toward them. Whatever else, his eyes were still swollen shut – he wouldn’t see the person coming over to him, and that inability was beginning to form a real panic. He’d not been able to see or hear Kinjiro’s approach either…

The gutteral voice spoke at length – and then the smooth voice that had announced his fate the last time spoke again. “Your will to live is admirable, Lyle-san. Many men have not lasted half as long with Kinjiro.”

Lyle would have tried to speak, but the effort only reminded him that one of his last encounters with his “keeper” had resulted in a horrific blow to his face that probably had broken his jaw. He contented himself with an agonized grunt. He had past the point of caring what happened to him – his own death was now a mercy to be prayed for.

“It has been decided that your life will have some purpose after all – and still honor and justice will be served,” the smooth voice continued. “You will be returned to Nippon – and become the person on whom our newest recruits practice their skills in persuasion and intimidation. Tanaka-san has decided to spare your life – so that you may serve the Yakuza in this way.”

The gutteral voice spoke again briefly. “Kinjiro will be your mentor and your keeper, however – as well as the teacher of others. I’m sure that he’ll keep you suitably humble in the presence of the superior man.”

There would be no death for him? Lyle was beyond agony. By the time death DID come for him, Lyle suspected that what little was left of his sanity would have been long since sliced, pounded, beaten, whipped, raped and carved out of him. Regardless of the pain it gave to move his jaw, he let out a scream of pure horror and hopelessness at the sentence of a living death. And in the depths of his soul, he damned William Raines – and prayed to a God he didn’t believe in that the old ghoul at least suffer a small portion of what he was going through.

And then, he simply lost consciousness again.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Zoë walked down the steps of the cabin feeling cheated and frustrated. Absently she wiped her wet hands on her pants leg, not caring that the dampness allowed some of the autumn evening chill to penetrate.

The Pedron bitch had the gall to insist that she hadn’t heard from Jarod in all this time! How could that be – Jarod still spoke very fondly of her, as if he had seen her not so very long again. Even the gun speaking and putting holes in hands and knees hadn’t been convincing enough to break through the woman’s lies. But in the end, it was HER decision who it was that would live or die - and so, the lying bitch had had to die.

Zoë walked slowly over to her pink convertible, her mind once more reviewing the things that Jarod had told her. Who else might know? He’d helped so many – but only a few had he mentioned by name. Those must be the ones who meant the most to him.

There was a woman – she ran a bar. What was her name? Zoë slouched into the driver’s seat and reached for the small notebook she’d filled with all of the details that she’d managed to remember about Jarod’s life. That’s right – Faye O’Donnell – and the bar was JAX. She shoved the notebook back into the glove box and slammed the little door shut.

Jarod said that he’d left Faye with a minor fortune and the freedom from the mob that she’d never known before. He spoke as if he’d kept in touch enough to know that she’d made a reasonable success of her business since helping to free that cop and put the mobsters behind bars.

Zoë fired up the engine and spun the wheels in the dirt pulling away from the rustic shack that would soon enough be on fire. It wouldn’t do to leave anything at the scene that could lead back to her, or to the… She frowned, and then shrugged. Just back to her, she guessed. Well… The flickering of the flames was already visible through the windows as the convertible sped past the cabin heading back down the mountain. NOT back to her.

On to Boston…

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

“All right, Jarod,” Major Charles spoke finally as Margaret settled down on the couch next to him – her hostess duties in serving coffee and slices of homemade apple pie now concluded. “I think the time has come for you to tell us exactly what the Hell is going on – why you’ve brought Miss Parker here, and what you intend for us to do with her now that she’s here.”

Miss Parker was finally feeling enough revived to growl her protest. “Now wait just a minute…”

“Shut up, Parker,” Jarod barked at her, his fatigue just now beginning to wear through his patience. “I didn’t tell you the whole story in Blue Cove – and you would have been too out of it to have much of what I did tell you penetrate.”

“Better just start from the beginning and tell us ALL what’s up, big brother,” Ethan remarked bluntly after putting a hand on his half-sister’s arm to keep her from getting up and physically assaulting his half-brother. “Looks like Mom and Dad aren’t the only ones who are ticked now.”

Jarod sighed and turned back to his father. “You all know that I’ve been with Emily in Philadelphia, right?”

“I didn’t,” Miss Parker snapped, “but don’t let that stop you from telling the story.”

The Pretender glared at her, and then shrugged. “The Pretend I’m working on there had to do with the death of a man associated with a place called The Foundation…”

This time Miss Parker snorted in derision. “I’ve heard of them – second-rate weapons dealers.”

“Wrong,” Jarod frowned. “Are you going to let me tell this or not?”

Miss Parker threw up her hands and settled back in her chair, swatting away the restraining hand that Ethan kept aiming in her direction. She knew her brother meant well, but she didn’t need a babysitter…

“You mean Miss Parker’s assessment is wrong?” Major Charles probed. From what little he’d seen of Catherine Parker’s daughter, he was convinced that it would be rare that her information about other firms be very far off beam.

“Her information is nothing but the public face put on something very different. In fact, the Foundation is a Centre clone,” Jarod pronounced darkly, “complete with sweepers crawling all over the place, surveillance cameras in every nook and cranny, secret projects with apocryphal names and a penchant for taking what doesn’t belong to them.” He took a deep breath and then turned to JD. “I saw a Sim Lab there – just like the one at the Centre, and probably the one you used in Donoterase.”

JD gaped. “You’re joking?”

Jarod shook his head. “The more I looked into this man’s death, the more I was led to look into a project he’d been working on called Purloined. The day I called Sydney, I’d finally uncovered the fact that they were building a Sim Lab right there on the premises – and the only reason they’d need one of THOSE would be because they were going to acquire a Pretender – most likely from the Centre. I called him to find out what he knew about a new generation of Pretenders at the Centre.”

“Duplicity…” Miss Parker breathed as she finally started to see connections. “Oh my God!”

“What is Duplicity?” Margaret demanded, looking back and forth between her son and his former huntress.

Instead of a direct answer, Jarod turned to JD. “Did you ever know that you were a prototype? The first of several similar attempts?”

“No!” JD’s face had lost all trace of color. “Jarod – h…how many?”

“A total of twelve,” Miss Parker answered for him, her voice equally stunned. “We’d just uncovered Duplicity ourselves when Jarod called. Da…” The name still stuck in her throat and wouldn’t be pronounced. “Mr. Parker authorized it – and authorized a facility be built on Federal Park land in Montana to house it.”

“You KNEW about this?” Major Charles bounded to his feet and loomed threateningly over the injured woman.

“No, Dad – she found out about it about the same time I did,” Jarod put a protective hand up to try to stop his father. “It was in comparing notes with Sydney over the phone that I discovered that the Centre – and Mss Parker specifically – had been threatened. I left Philadelphia Friday night,” he nodded at his mother, “to put a plan together to thwart the threat against Miss Parker – in exchange for all the information she and her team had put together about Duplicity.”

“Why would Miss Parker be threatened by Duplicity?” Ethan frowned.

“Not by Duplicity – nor by Raines or his cohort in charge of the Centre,” Jarod shook his head. “Someone else, determined to undermine the Centre into extinction, viewed her investigative skills as a threat worthy of a death sentence. I got there just in time to foil a plan to “help” her right into a fatal auto accident that would be blamed on alcohol. I gave them what they wanted – a dead Miss Parker – and then brought her here. In exchange, I got as much information on Duplicity as they had gathered to date.”

“But WHO?” Major Charles demanded, even as he stepped backwards and sat back down again. “WHO are we talking about that would be plotting Miss Parker’s death and the Centre’s downfall – and why aren’t we helping them…” He glanced guiltily at his injured guest. “…in the latter part of that plan, anyway?”

“I don’t have any solid proof of this,” Jarod admitted, “but I suspect that the Foundation is behind the events at the Centre – and of plotting to steal one or more of the Duplicity subjects for their own use. From memos I found in the Foundation computer, THAT was what had the man I whose death I was looking into nervous – so nervous that he was starting to talk to the FBI.” He faced his father. “And the reason we aren’t cheering and helping them take the Centre down is that I’m fairly certain that they found out about Duplicity and intend to turn yet another Pretender or two or three into lifelong prisoners and slaves – just as the Centre tried to do with me. We’re not helping them because they’re just the Centre all over again – same power-hungry, exploitive agenda with a different corporate logo.”

“And the Foundation killed this man you were talking about because of something to do with Duplicity?” Miss Parker was starting to get a firm grasp on how the information she and her team had unearthed dovetailed far too neatly into what Jarod had uncovered independently.

Jarod nodded. “I’m pretty sure of it - I just need proof of the Foundation’s complicity in his death, what happened to you at the Centre – and proof that they’ve stolen a piece of Duplicity – before I can know how to respond.”

“A PIECE of Duplicity?” JD had launched himself to his feet and was now pacing the room angrily. “You’re talking about people, Jarod – others exactly like ME!”

“I know.” Jarod’s sorrow and sympathy reverberated loudly through the room. “That’s why I need your help to stop this.”

JD stopped pacing and leaned his backside against the wall near the living room mantle. “You were gonna get THAT whether you wanted it or not,” he grumbled and then subsided. “So now what?”

Jarod turned to look at Miss Parker. “There were people at the Centre who I had to get out of harm’s way first before I turned the Feds loose there. Sydney, Miss Parker’s little brother, a computer tech named Broots and his daughter…”

“Sam,” Miss Parker nodded, then explained at Margaret’s look of confusion, “my personal sweeper.” She looked up at Jarod suddenly. “What about Angelo?”

“If I know him,” Jarod answered carefully, “he’ll figure out what’s going on and get somewhere safe – maybe with Sydney.”

She gave him a very surprised look. “You’re crediting him with more than he deserves, Jarod…”

“On the contrary, you and the Centre have been underestimating him all along,” Jarod shook his head. “You knew I had a source inside the Centre?”

“Yes… Oh my God!” It was Miss Parker’s turn to gape. “Angelo?”

“So what ARE we going to do about the Centre’s abuse of others like me – and Jarod?” JD added as an afterthought. “We can’t just let them create a whole army of slaves…”

“That’s part of why I turned the FBI loose in the Centre just before I left,” Jarod explained patiently. “I sent an old FBI colleague of mine from a Pretend or two all of the info that Parker and Sydney had given me – along with a few other things I’d been collecting during raids on the mainframe over the years.” He turned to Miss Parker with a smile. “Raines is going to have a LOT of explaining to do – as will Mr. Cox and Willy and several others you and I both know and love dearly.”

“Sweet!” Miss Parker’s smile in return was just as full of satisfaction as was Jarod’s.

“So the FBI will tear apart the Centre’s Duplicity Project,” JD shrugged cynically. “What will happen to the clones?”

“Foster care,” Jarod guessed. “Whatever, it will be ten times better than anything the Centre would have had planned for them.”

“And if this Foundation has already stolen some of them?” JD wanted to know.

Jarod looked at his younger self. “Until we know for sure that they have, which is part of the reason I have to be back at work on Monday morning, we won’t know how to respond.”

“Twelve boys…” Margaret mused, feeling her heart break. She looked over at Miss Parker pleadingly. “How old are they – do you know?”

Miss Parker sighed. “From what we were able to figure out, it’s probable that they are anywhere from fifteen, sixteen years old at the most to two or three at the least.”

“What… what happened to the women who were their mothers?” JD asked softly. Margaret reached out a comforting hand, knowing her youngest “son” had never really made peace with the idea that he’d had but one parent biologically – and a birth mother who had never, ever, been allowed to be a part of his life.

Miss Parker and Jarod exchanged a quick and penetrating look, and then they both shook their heads. “That’s something else I put in the papers I gave the FBI,” Jarod said softly. “The termination orders, and the return receipts of the jobs being completed as ordered, should land a lot of people in prison for the rest of their lives.”

“Damn the Centre for playing God,” Major Charles growled and rose to pace the floor. “And damn the Foundation too.” He looked at Miss Parker. “I apologize for my earlier rudeness. You’re welcome to stay here as long as you feel it necessary. Jarod,” he turned to his son, “you have your help. Just tell us where, when, and what you want…”

“You bet!” Ethan agreed energetically. “This can’t be allowed to continue unopposed.”

Miss Parker was nodding too. “You probably saved my life, Jarod – how many times, I’m not exactly sure, but I know this isn’t the first time. Now that I don’t exist for the Centre anymore, maybe I’m finally able to consider balancing the scales a little.” Her face grew grim. “And if you’re right, these people are the same ones who were going to kill me. I’m in. You couldn’t keep me out if you tried.”

At last Jarod felt the small knot in his stomach relax. “Then we wait for a bit,” he told them, looking first at Miss Parker, “until you recover and Broots uncovers more from the data I told him to bring home from the mainframe, and…” he looked at the rest of his family, “…until I find out more in Philadelphia.”

“How long could that all take, Jarod?” Margaret asked gently.

“I’m not sure, Mom,” he answered sadly. “Probably a whole lot longer than any of us want.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

“Are you sure we’re doing the right thing, Horace?” Sandi Evanston asked for the third time since beginning to help her husband pack hastily-filled boxes of personal belongings into their SUV.

Horace eyed the little boy who was already strapped into the car seat and nodded as he reached out for the next box. “Positive,” he replied firmly. “He deserves better – and so do we.”

Sandi eyed the pall of smoke that hung in the sky overhead – and especially the plume in the south that seemed as if it had yet to diminish. “What about the Centre, Horace? Won’t they be looking for us?”

Her husband shook his head. “Not if they believe me dead,” he replied.

“But…”

“Look, we don’t have time to argue,” Horace’s patience was running low. “Let’s just finish and then get the hell out of here.”

Sandi handed her husband the last box. “I’ll lock up,” she said and started back up the the rear steps to the house.

“Leave it,” Horace called and stopped her. “It will look like you just drove away when you got word of my death. Get in the car, honey.”

Sandi looked over her shoulder at the house and play yard that were the result of years of saving and certification. The play equipment had been her latest and greatest triumph – for the school-strength plastic slides and swing frames had been an expensive investment. Then her head swiveled to peek in the back seat at the little boy who watched their every move with oddly intelligent and understanding eyes. 

There was no question as to which one she valued more. She climbed into the car and turned halfway in her seat after fastening her seat belt, reaching back to the child and once more smoothing the soft, dark hair. “It’s OK, Peter,” she told the solemn-eyed boy. “We’re going on an adventure. You like adventures, don’t you?”

The huge dark eyes zeroed in on her face, but the boy remained mute. Sandi wondered just what this child had been through that he wouldn’t as yet have said a single word to either of them – but merely caressed his cheek gently once more and then turned to face forward. Horace slammed the fifth door of the vehicle and then climbed in behind the steering wheel.

“East or West?” he asked as he turned the key in the ignition.

“West,” Sandi answered after a little thought. “I have an old school friend in San Francisco – she might let us stay with her for a day while we get ourselves settled a bit…”

Horace nodded. “West it is then.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Imsi Londele used the reflection of an opening glass door in front of him to confirm that he was indeed being followed. The black suit and dark glasses confirmed his suspicion that the man tailing him was associated with the Triumvirate. Had it been any other time, the idea that the Triumvirate was following him around wouldn’t have bothered him – but coming so soon after the unfortunate events in the United States, and considering the contract he’d been given, the timing was suspicious.

Not that Lula Mutumbo would have betrayed him – no. She was far too ambitious a woman, and far too impatient a woman to earn the top spot in the consortium the legitimate way. But if not she, then who would have ordered the surveillance? Could it be Shinse Olabi himself? And if so, why? He hadn’t done anything to attract the attention of the consortium for years – after all, they had their own assassins on retainer – and so hadn’t run afoul of the Triumvirate by relieving anyone of their lives that the consortium would care about.

More to the point, what was he going to do about it? He couldn’t make any of the arrangements for Olabi’s unfortunate “accident” if his every move, his every contact, was monitored. Abruptly changing his mind and turning at the stop light, he paused before crossing to look in both directions – and found the sedan that was the shadow of his Triumvirate friend. It didn’t take rocket science to figure out that any conversation he’d have this day would be monitored and recorded.

How long had this been going on? 

Longele walked across the street in a direction perpendicular to the assignation he’d been heading to – he’d have to find a way to contact his supplier without using the telephone now. Would they have his Internet account watched as well?

He walked halfway down the street until he could walk into one of the small markets, and he headed toward the back and the refrigerator section. He took hold of a six-pack of his favorite beer and headed back to the cash register, almost smirking as he passed his “tail” supposedly perusing the magazine rack. He paid for his beer and headed out again, going back to the apartment he’d taken. It was early in the day to be buying alcohol, but it made for a decent ruse – and he’d at least have them when evening rolled around again.

Dealing with this latest development would take some planning and strategy – and he narrowed his eyes as he considered how much the extra effort and arrangements were going to cost Mrs. Mutumbo. She probably wouldn’t like that much…

He’d have to watch her too, now. Life had just gotten a LOT more interesting – just as he liked it! After living a life that was too soft by a long ways, he would at last get a chance to prove himself the best on the continent – and survive to present his client with a suitable bill for services rendered.

Maybe he’d get enough this time to move to the French Riviera.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

“Ouch!”

“Oh, for God’s sake, Parker, it was just a piece of adhesive…” Jarod shook his head and tossed the bandage into the trash before reaching for the bottle of peroxide. “Now hold still…”

“I can do this myself, you know,” Miss Parker told him with cynical patience.

“Look, I gave you this – I want to make sure it’s healing properly,” he countered and swatted her hands away. “Enjoy the doctoring, Parker – after tonight, you’ll be on your own again.”

She settled back in the chair. “I think you just like making me uncomfortable,” she growled at him in a low voice.

His face brightened slightly, and slowly his lips twitched into his trademarked smirk. “Oh, it goes far beyond that, Parker,” he chuckled as he carefully dribbled the clear liquid into the wound and watched as the bubbles formed. “Doing better tonight,” he announced. “If you keep it clean, there should be no infection – and very little by way of a scar when it’s healed. Here…” He reached for a hand to hold the swabbing ball of cotton to the wound to blot away the peroxide, “hold this here while I get another bandage ready.”

She sat quietly beneath his ministrations until he’d moved her hand away again and pressed gently to get the bandage to adhere. “Jarod?”

“Hmmm?” he asked, clearing away the debris from the bandage change.

“What about Evan?”

The Pretender nodded. “You care for him, don’t you?”

“No shit, Sherlock – he’s my little brother. Now answer my question,” she snapped. “I was supposed to go to Dover with him this weekend – and now he thinks I’m dead?”

“Yes, he thinks you’re dead – for the time being,” Jarod told her tiredly. “If you remember – and maybe you don’t – you’d made arrangements for Sydney to be appointed his legal guardian in case of…”

“I remember that part,” she growled at him. “I did that a long damned time ago.”

“Well,” Jarod refused to let her tone egg him into something approaching an argument. “…Sydney will be retiring to take care of Evan – and once he’s managed that, he’s going to move somewhere safer, where you can rejoin the two of them later on.”

“Where?” she demanded.

He shrugged. “I left that part up to Sydney – but I gave him a phone number he can use to call me once he’s settled. When you rejoin him, the story told will be that you are Evan’s mother.” He brushed his hands off together. “There. All finished.”

Miss Parker put a tentative hand to her forehead. The cut wasn’t hurting as much as it had been anymore – whatever Jarod had done to it over the last two sessions of his “doctoring” had put the healing process into high gear. “How long do you want me to stay here?”

“Until that’s healed, at the very earliest,” he answered, gesturing at her forehead. “After that, JD and Ethan will keep track of the Centre – and you can call Sydney when you think the time has come to connect with him.”

“What about the Foundation?” she asked, confused. “When you take on one of your Pretends, it usually includes putting the “bad guy” in a position where he is treated to a measure of justice BEFORE the authorities arrive. What are you going to do?”

Jarod slipped into a kitchen chair opposite her at the table. “I’m not sure, Parker. I told you, I don’t have proof yet – and I won’t know HOW to move until I do.”

“You’ll need help,” she stated firmly. “I want in.”

“Parker…”

“Jarod – if you’re right, these are the people who tried to kill me. If they aren’t, then I’ll make myself scarce the moment you have proof of that. But if they’re involved, I want to be in on whatever payback you decide to deal them – from the very beginning.”

Jarod frowned at her. “We’re not talking a short-term assignment here, Parker. It could take months to find what we need to take to the authorities…”

“I don’t care.”

“Well, you should.” He rose from his seat and stomped over to the stove to put the fire under the tea kettle. “The Foundation is just like the Centre – and if you felt trapped at the Centre, you sure as hell are going to feel trapped there too.”

“Jarod! Miss Parker!” JD came into the kitchen gesturing widely. His face was pale, and he was very agitated. “You’ve got to come hear this!”

“What?” Jarod asked with a frown. “We were talking…”

“You will want to hear this before finishing your conversation – TRUST me!” JD turned quickly enough to make his braid fly in the air, heading back toward the living room and the television that could be heard in the background.

Jarod and Miss Parker shared a confused glance in which both shrugged at the other. “He’s so like you,” Miss Parker commented dryly as she rose to her feet. “C’mon, Genius – let’s see what the other genius has found.”

The two entered the living room to stare at a scene on the television of fire and disaster. “An explosion in the Glacier National Park has leveled a high security facility and sparked a forest fire that has caused the evacuation of hundreds of people from surrounding areas. The US Park Service is unwilling to speculate on the purpose of the facility, which has been completely destroyed in the explosion and fire. But according to eyewitness accounts, the fireball from the explosion here was seen four miles away in Whitefish – and thirty fire companies from Montana and Idaho have been dispatched to deal with the forest fire caused when embers were carried on the winds. Sources at the scene rule out any survivors of the original blast, and the fire now stands at two thousand square acres of timberland. It is hoped that containment will be reached by…”

“My God, Jarod,” Miss Parker turned to the man standing next to her, “that’s…”

“That was Duplicity, wasn’t it?” JD asked quietly – all the energy having drained from him. “You said it was in Montana, up on Federal Park lands…”

Jarod was stunned. “They’re all dead?” Then he frowned. “How very convenient…”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Jim McKenna reached for his remote to turn up the volume when an all-too-familiar building and logo flashed on his television screen.

“The business world today was stunned at the news that the Centre – a high-tech research and development firm based in Delaware – has filed for Chapter Thirteen bankruptcy protection. This following reports that the Chairman and several corporate officers and staff had been taken into custody by federal agents on a variety of charges that include murder and extortion.”

McKenna leaned back in his comfortable leather recliner and sipped at his whiskey sour. The prizes from Montana would be arriving in Philadelphia the next evening, and whatever legal shenanigans that the Centre had done that had landed it in hot water had finished the job that the McKennas had started years ago. Fifteen long years of planning and waiting and watching were paying off.

Slowly his eyes lifted to the huge portrait that hung at the other end of the private library – and McKenna rose out of his seat and carried his drink with him. The old man had been driven – obsessed – with carrying out his progenitor’s crusade against the Centre. Now, perhaps, the old man could rest easy at last.

We did it, Papa, he thought triumphantly, raising his whiskey in salute and then chortling aloud: “We got ‘em!”


End file.
